II 

li! 


11 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


A  WALK  IN  HELLAS 


— OK 


THE  OLD  IN  THE  NEW 


DENTON  J.  SNIDER. 


CHAS.  GILDEHAUS 

Private  Library. 


PRIVATELY   PRINTED. 

St.  Lords,  Mo. 
1881 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress, 

BY  DENTON  J.  SNIDEB, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


.     .    -•  .      .  •      •   '  «. 

•.:   ' 

• 


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O 


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en 


CONTENTS. 


/.  From  Athens  to  Penteticus. 

"      //.  From  Pentelicus  to  Parnes. 

<£ 

"      III.  From  Parnes  to  Marathon. 

"      IV.  Marathon. 

"       V.  From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo. 

"       T7/.  Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo. 

CO,  "       F//.  T'Vom  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis. 

"       F///.  JLw^'s  an^  Chattels. 
f» 

^  "      ZX".  ^Vom  ^w^'s  to  Thebes. 

ijj 

£)  "X.  Thebes  and  Plataea. 

Thebes  to  Lebedeia. 
^  Lebedeia. 


TALK  FIRST. 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus. 

I  PROPOSE  to  give  you  some  account  of  a  trip  through 
Greece  in  a  series  of  talks.     I  do  not  know  that  I  have  any 
thing  very  new  or  entertaining  to  offer ;  I  feel,  however, 
that  I  may  take  for  granted  that  you  are  interested  in  this 
journey  as  friends  of  myself.     It  is  doubtful  whether  you 
would  care  much  to  read  what  I  shall  tell  you  in  the  book  of 
a  stranger,  but  a  personal  conversation  with  you  may  lay 
some  additional  claim  to  your  interest.     For  this  reason, 
too,  I  shall  speak  with  unabashed  frequency  in  the  first  per- 
son :  I  have  gone  through  these  experiences,  and  am  now 
telling  them  to  you.     There  is  no  disguising  the  fact ;  it  is 
I,  and  nobody  else, — though  I  would  like,  for  the  sake  of 
modesty,  to  hide  this  /  in  some  misty  third  person,  or  spirit 
him  away  into  the  roomy  editorial  JFe,  if  you  were  not  sure 
to  catch  me  in  the  act.     Sometimes,  indeed,   I  may  try  to 
free  myself  for  a  moment  of  this  uncomfortable  person  ;  but 
in  general,  brazen-faced  I  shall  speak  of  him  with  little  or 
no  attempt  at  disguise. 


2  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

It  is  not  the  information,  not  the  statistics,  not  the  so- 
called  hard  facts  which  I  propose  to  give  you,  but  some 
thing  very  different.  Can  I  impress  upon  you  this  land- 
scape, these  hills  and  valleys  with  the  sunlight  in  which  they 
softly  repose ;  can  I  call  up  the  emotions — the  joy,  the  se- 
renity, the  exaltation  in  which  they  are  forever  steeped ;  can 
I  leave  with  you  an  image  of  this  modern  Greek  life  as  it 
unfolds  to  the  eye  of  the  tourist  in  humble  but  spontaneous 
reality ;  but,  most  of  all,  can  I  therein  impart  to  you  in  its 
true  mood  and  coloring  some  adumbration  of  that  old  Greek 
world  on  account  of  which  alone  modern  Greece  has  chief 
interest  for  us  to-day?  Nothing  must  be  eschewed  for  the 
sake  of  dignity  or  of  conventionality,  if  I  understand  your 
spirit ;  we  are  determined  to  see,  to  feel,  nay,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, to  live  this  life  as  it  now  rises  before  us,  with  the  as- 
surance that  whatever  exist  has  some  right  to  be,  and  de- 
serves by  the  very  fact  of  its  existing  in  the  world,  to  be 
treated  with  sympathetic  appreciation. 

Moreover,  I  intend  to  tell  you  many  things  which  are 
small  and  unimportant.  But  little  matters,  if  they  be  chos- 
en with  some  insight,  are  the  true  characters  by  which  we 
may  spell  out  a  nation  or  an  age ;  small  things  often  most 
vividly  image  the  greatest  deeds,  the  profoundest  thoughts. 
You  know  that  the  keystone  of  the  arch  may  be  a  pebble ; 
the  one  pithy  anecdote  may  be  the  concentrated  utterance  of 
centuries.  And  Greece  herself  is  small,  very  small  compar- 
ed to  most  countries,  but  what  does  she  not  stand  for? 
Exceeding  small  she  is ;  still  that  is  just  her  gift,  to  make 
herself  with  her  smallness  the  abiding  image  of  what  is  wor- 
tliiest  and  most  beautiful  in  the  world's  history.  Small 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  3 

things  we  shall  not  dispise,  when  our  very  theme,  Greece 

herself,  is  so  small. 

Nor  shall  I  be  very  particular  about  a  rigidly  consecutive 
narration.  We — all  of  us,  I  hope — shall  loiter  along  the 
wayside,  go  and  pick  in  the  fields  a  classical  flower,  ramble 
through  the  ruins,  turn  about  often  and  look  at  the  moun- 
tains and  the  clouds,  stop  and  wash  our  faces  in  a  clear  run- 
ning brook,  thinking  that  Pericles  or  some  other  great  man, 
or  even  some  god  may  have  done  the  same  thing  in  the  same 
place.  Like  merry  children  let  loose  in  the  meadows  on  the 
first  day  of  Spring,  we  shall  wander  around  this  fair  Hellas — 
itself  the  eternal  spring  of  the  world — going  pretty  much 
any  whither,  without  any  definite  purpose,  wherever  a  flower 
attracts  our  attention ;  and  then  we  shall  return  home  with 
the  spoils  of  the  journey  woven  into  a  many-colored  garland. 
Such  a  garland  I  am  going  to  try  to  weave  now ;  its  string 
will  be  my  path,  stretching  through  Northern  Greece,  to 
Marathon  where  the  struggle  between  Orient  and  Occident 
was  decided  ;  thence  to  Aulis  where  the  Greek  heroes  ship- 
ped for  Troy  to  recover  Helen ;  thence  to  Thebes  storied  with 
tragic  destinies ;  thence  to  Delphi,  home  of  the  God  of 
Light,  well-head  of  prophecy  and  poesy.  Perchance  we 
shall  cross  the  Corinthian  Gulf,  sweep  around  the  Pelopone- 
sos,  and  return  by  the  Isthmus  of  Corinth  to  Athens,  whence 
all  of  us  together  at  this  moment  are  getting  ready  to  start. 
But  let  not  too  much  be  promised  beforehand,  for  the  way  is 
long  and  the  thread  is  slender. 

It  is  indeed 'a  slender  thread,  but  on  it  I  intend  to  string 
many  a  gem  and  many  a  pearl,  if  I  can  find  them  ;  smooth 
stones  and  glass  beads  of  very  different  values  shall  not  be 
thrown  away  ; — all  are  to  be  pierced  and  threaded  just  as  I 


4  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

pick  them  up  on  my  path.  A  variegated  string  it  will  doubt- 
less be ; — reflections,  reminiscences,  recinato ;  men,  women, 
I  donkeys — all  strung  together,  side  by  side.  But  on  this 
1  modern  garland  you  will  see,  if  I  dare  think  of  success, 
many  a  shape  hinting  of  antique  beauty ;  nay,  the  whole  of 
it  will,  I  hope,  fall  into  your  eyes  with  the  free  and  joyous 
undulations  of  a  Greek  outline,  rounded  off  into  harmonious 
unity.  Kalon  taxeibodion — God  speed  you,  my  hearers,  on 
your  journey ;  as  for  me,  I  am  safe,  but  you  may  have  a 
hard  time  of  it. 

After  inquiring  in  vain  for  a  companion  who  would  like  to 
make  the  tour  of  Greece  with  me  on  foot,  1  concluded  to  set 
out  alone.  Everybody  whom  I  consulted,  particularly  the 
members  of  the  American  colony  at  Athens,  were  inclined  to 
dissuade  me.  The  reasons  alleged  against  making  such  a 
trip  were  chiefly  two :  first,  that  it  was  dangerous  ;  second- 
ly, that  the  traveler  would  be  subject  to  great  inconven- 
iences. It  was  said  that  there  were  still  brigands  lurking  in 
the  mountains  and  in  covert  places  ;  some  people  intimated 
that  the  entire  rural  population  were  always  on  the  point  of 
turning  into  a  temporary  state  of  brigandage.  There  were 
even  Greeks  at  Athens  who  were  not  free  from  such  appre- 
hensions, and  doubtfully  shook  the  head  at  the  proposition 
of  a  solitary  walk  through  the  provinces.  Such  are  the 
warnings  to  be  heard  at  the  capital ;  the  result  is  that  very 
few  travelers  penetrate  into  the  more  remote,  yet  by  all 
means  the  most  interesting  districts  of  Greece.  The  unfor- 
tunate case  of  the  party  of  foreign  excursionists  who  were 
captured  by  brigands  in  the  year  1870  not  far  from  Mara- 
thon is  always  cited,  and  still  works  vividly  upon  the  imagi- 
nation of  both  tourist  and  citizen. 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  5 

But  besides  the  danger,  the  representations  concerning  the 
state  of  the  roads 'and  the  hotels  were  sufficient  to  call  up 
the  second  thought  in  the  mind  of  the  traveler  before  under- 
taking such  a  journey.  It  is  true  that  there  are  not  many 
carriage  roads  in  Greece,  and  that  these  run  between  some 
of  the  larger  towns  only ;  but  mule  paths  amply  plain  and 
broad  enough  for  the  pedestrian  are  to  be  found  leading 
everywhere.  It  is  also  true  that  there  are  no  hostelries  in 
the  rural  portions  of  Greece ;  but  the  hospitality  of  the  citi- 
zen takes  their  place ;  even  the  humblest  peasant  will  share 
with  the  traveler  his  loaf,  his  wine  and  his  olives.  Always  I 
found  shelter  somewhere  ;  always  too  I  was  greeted,  as  I  en- 
tered the  rustic  cabin,  with  the  friendliest  signs  of  welcome. 

These  admonitions,  however,  repeated  to  me  often  during 
a  stay  of  nearly  three  months  at  Athens,  were  not  without 
their  influence.  I  hardly  knew  whether  I  had  better  under- 
take the  trip  or  not.  I  did  not  like  the  idea  of  being  robbed 
on  the  highway,  or  of  being  captured  by  brigands  and  held 
for  a  high  ransom  which,  I  felt  certain,  they  would  never 
get.  The  question  of  accommodation  gave  me  less  trouble  ; 
the  food  which  the  peasant  could  plough  on,  I  knew  I  could 
walk  on, — and  the  bed  which  he  could  sleep  on,  I  could 
snore  on.  But  I  was  growing  dissatisfied  with  Athens,  not 
because  it  was  an  unpleasant  place  to  live  in,  but  because  it 
was  altogether  too  European,  too  much  of  a  repetition  of  the 
Occident,  it  was  not  Greek  enough.  Much  and  memorable 
had  there  been  seen  and  duly  noted :  above  all,  its  two  glo- 
rious temples,  still  the  most  perfect  remains  of  antiquity, 
and  to-day  the  most  beautiful  architectural  efforts  of  the 
world.  Many  an  ancient  custom  had  in  living  reality  been 
caught  from  the  street  and  the  market-place,  and  had  been 


6  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

treasured ;  all  the  famous  spots  of  the  antique  violet-crown- 
ed city  had  been  visited  and  studiously  pondered ;  the  serene 
climate,  the  transparent  atmosphere,  the  happy  blue  sides 
had  sunk  deep  within,  and,  I  might  hope,  had  left  a  lasting 
image  upon  the  soul.  But  the  chief  thing  was,  that  I  had 
made  myself  sufficiently  acquainted  with  modern  Greek  to 
converse  with  reasonable  fluency  on  any  topic  that  was  like- 
ly to  arise  during  a  trip  through  the  provinces. 

Of  the  tongue  spoken  by  the  Greeks  of  to-day  there  are 
two  leading  dialects.  The  first  is  the  language  of  society  at 
Athens,  of  the  newspapers,  of  the  professors  at  the  Universi- 
ty, and  of  the  cultivated  people  generally :  it  may  be  called 
modern  Greek.  The  second  is  the  language  of  the  common 
people — Romaic,  as  they  themselves  call  it.  Modern  Greek 
has  a  continual  tendency  to  approach  ancient  Greek,  on  ac- 
count of  the  influence  of  classical  learning.  Some  of  the 
newspapers  the  visitor  will  at  once  pick  up  and  attempt  to 
read ;  he  will  laugh,  for  he  will  see  old  Xenophon  trying  to 
put  on  European  frock  and  breeches.  The  effect  is  at  first 
ludicrous ;  the  whole  print  seems  like  a  modern  travesty  on 
ancient  Greek.  Strangely  new  is  the  tinge  given  to  old 
words  ;  still  more  strangely  new  are  the  compounds  made  up 
of  old  words  in  order  to  express  the  needs  and  relations  of 
modern  life.  Railroad,  steamboat,  constitution — here  they 
all  come,  peeping  with  sly  mockery  out  of  their  Greek 
masks.  A  comic  masquerade  of  old  Greek  forms  it  seems  ; 
this  is  the  first  impression. 

But  the  Romaic  or  the  popular  tongue  is  more  interesting, 
to  me  at  least ;  it  has  that  spontaneity  which  always  gushes 
from  the  hearts  of  the  people,  and  which  a  cultivated  lan- 
guage is  apt  to  file  away,  as  being  too  rude  for  polished  so- 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  7 

ciety.  It  is  muddied,  you  will  soon  discover,  with  Turkish 
and  other  foreign  elements ;  still  it  has  turns  which  will 
carry  you  back  to  old  Homer.  Moreover,  it  has  a  vast  body 
of  popular  poetry,  altogether  the  most  original  product  of 
modern  Greece. 

I  felt,  therefore,  that  I  had  not  found  at  Athens  altogeth- 
er what  I  had  come  to  Greece  in  search  of.  It  was  a  feel- 
ing of  disappointment,  not  intense,  yet  not  satisfactory. 
What  it  was  that  I  missed,  what  it  was  that  could  not  be 
found  there,  I  was  not  able  to  tell  then,  nor  do  I  know  that 
I  am  able  to  tell  now. 

What  had  I  come  to  Greece  for?  Such  was  the  question 
which  now  began  to  insist  stoutly  upon  an  answer.  Mani- 
festly with  some  very  eager  and  enthusiastic  purpose,  yet 
quite  indefinite,  very  difficult  to  lay  down  in  words.  It  was 
some  aspiration  following  down  from  youth,  some  image 
drawn  from  Greek  classic  lore,  some  dream  perchance,  sent 
from  above  by  the  gods,  through  the  golden  lips  of  that 
greatest  of  terrestial  magicians,  ancient  Homer.  It  was 
something  or  other  quite  impalpable  but  very  persistent,  that 
is  certain — an  airy  shape,  fading  into  indistinctness ;  still 
it  never  ceased  to  beckon,  and  sometimes  in  unconscious 
moments  to  pluck  me  by  the  arm,  whispering :  '  'Behold,  this 
is  not  the  place,  I  dwell  not  here — go  further,  and  you  will 
find  me-"  I  could  truly  answer  in  skeptical  exclamation: 
What,  still  further !  I  have  crossed  the  ocean,  run  through 
Europe  with  mine  eye  mainly  fixed  on  that  image ;  still  it 
beckons  me  forward  after  such  a  chase — what  if  it  be  but  a 
phantasm  ?  Shall  I  again  follow  ?  Of  course  I  shall,  and  at 
once  I  pack  up  two  shirts  and  two  books,  and  set  out. 

Now  if  the  unrestf  ul  but  happy  wanderer  were  to  give  you 


8  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

some  word  or  expression  by  which  you  might  catch  at  the 
enticing  form  always  floating  before  him,  he  would  perchance 
say,  it  is  the  image  of  Helen.  He  is  in  pursuit  of  Helen ; 
her  above  all  human  and  divine  personalities  he  desires  to 
behold,  even  speak  with  face  to  face,  and  possibly  to  pos- 
sess. But  who  is  Helen  ?  You  are  aware  that  on  her  ac- 
count the  Trojan  war  was  fought,  that  all  Greece  when  she 
was  stolen  mustered  a  vast  armament  and  heroically  strug- 
gled ten  years  for  her  recovery,  and  did  recover  her  and 
biing  her  back  to  her  native  land.  Nor  is  the  legend  want- 
ing that  she  is  still  there  in  her  Grecian  home,  just  the  bloom- 
ing bride  who  was  once  led  away  by  the  youthful  Menelaos 
to  the  shining  palace  of  Sparta.  So  the  wanderer  is  going 
to  have  his  Iliad  too — an  Iliad  not  fought  and  sung,  but 
walked  and  perchance  dreamed,  for  the  possession  of  Helen 
— the  most  beautiful  woman  of  Greece,  nay,  the  most  beau- 
tiful woman  of  the  world.  There  she  stands  in  the  soft 
moonlight  of  fable,  statue-like,  just  before  the  entrance  to 
the  temple  of  History.  Thither  the  cloudy  image,  rapidly 
growing  more  distinct  and  more  persistent,  beckons  and 
points. 

It  is  likely  that  you  will  now  be  inclined  to  ask  concerning 
the  material  equipment  for  such  an  expedition.  Of  external 
things,  the  less  you  have,  the  better.  One  change  of  under- 
wear in  a  water-proof  knapsack  I  advise,  since  you  are  cer- 
tain of  being  overtaken  by  showers  during  the  winter  and 
spring — and  these  are  the  only  seasons  possible  for  traveling 
afoot  in  Greece.  Your  body  must  be  thoroughly  trained  to 
the  use  of  water  in  large  quantities  continuously  applied; 
rains  will  descend,  heavy  and  protracted,  and  there  are  no 
friendly  houses  standing  at  short  intervals  along  the  road — 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  9 

the  peasants  are  collected  into  villages  which  are  usually 
hours  apart;  nor  is  there  the  hospitable  tree  with  wide- 
spreading  branches  to  shelter  you,  for  in  our  American  sense 
of  the  word,  trees  do  not  exist  in  Greece  except  in  a  few  re- 
mote provinces.  One  india-rubber  drinking-cup  which  you 
can  double  up  and  put  in  your  pocket,  do  not  forget ;  it 
should  have  a  long  string  attached  so  that  you  can  let  it 
down  into  a  well  or  cavernous  spring.  Two  good  maps — an 
ancient  and  a  modern  one — are  very  necessary.  Take  an 
additional  pair  of  shoes,  if  you  can  carry  them ;  for  of  all 
countries  Greece  is  the  hardest  on  shoes.  It  was  with  the 
greatest  difficult}7  that  I  succeeded  in  keeping  myself  shod, 
as  I  traveled  over  its  rocky  pathways. 

In  regard  to  the  inner  equipment,  the  spiritual  outfit  of 
the  man,  just  the  opposite  principle  holds  true — the  more 
3  ou  bring  along,  the  better.  The  more  you  take  with  you 
the  more  you  will  be  likely  to  bring  back ;  indeed  it  may  be 
said  in  this  respect  that  unless  you  carry  a  good  deal  along, 
you  will  fetch  but  little  back.  What  shall  be  said  of  the 
geography  of  Greece  from  the  Homeric  catalogue  to  the 
traveler,  Pausanias  ?  You  can  not  afford  to  leave  behind  the 
mythology,  history,  poetry ;  here  along  our  path,  under  our 
very  feet  they  sprang  into  life  and  took  on  their  beautiful 
forms ;  here  is  the  vase,  but  you  must  furnish  the  wine. 
Every  spot  is  full,  provided  you  bring  the  fullness  with  you. 
But  the  chief  requisite  for  the  traveler  in  Greece  is,  in  my 
judgment,  a  deep  and  passionate  longing  to  see  Helen  al- 
ready mentioned.  With  her  image  hovering  before  him,  he 
leaps  through  the  valleys  and  skims  over  the  mountain  tops 
sandal-winged  ;  the  old  poetic  world  rises  up  before  his  eyes, 


10  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

robed  in  its  native  colors  and  enchased  in  the  setting  of  Na- 
ture in  which  it  came  into  existence. 

Still  you  must  not  think,  from  these  driving  fancies,  that 
the  benefits  of  the  Greek  trip  are  purely  imaginary.  Here 
too  prevails  that  law  which  is  the  law  of  the  whole  spiritual 
world — a  law  which  was  once  expressed  by  a  very  high  au- 
thority in  this  paradoxical  fashion :  ' '  Unto  him  that  hath 
shall  be  given,  but  from  him  that  hath  not  shall  be  taken 
away  even  that  which  he  hath."  From  him  that  hath  abso- 
lutely no  classical  knowledge  or  no  Greek  enthusiasm,  shall 
be  taken  away  all  pleasures  of  travel,  all  comprehension  of 
the  Hellenic  world ;  out  of  his  presence  will  flee  all  those 
joyous  images  which  sweetly  lend  their  company  to  the  true- 
hearted  traveler.  In  their  stead  the  grouty  tourist  will  no- 
tice only  crops  of  stones  on  his  path — which  will  make  him 
swear  on  account  of  their  bruising  his  feet ;  he  will  behold 
only  petticoated  men  weai'ing  fustanellas — which  will  de- 
grade his  lofty  notion  of  the  dignity  of  his  own  sex ;  he  will 
see*  only  bare-legged  women  washing  at  the  fountain — which 
will  give  a  strong  shock  to  his  innate  modesty.  Alas,  he 
will  cry,  where  is  that  Greek  ideal,  about  which  somebody 
said  to  somebody  else  who  told  me  that  it  was  the  highest 
type  of  beauty  ?  What  monstrous  liars  are  these  Greeks, 
any  how,  both  ancient  and  modern !  Then  he  will  go  home 
and  write  his  book.  But  that  other  person,  so  different, 
who  feels  no  inner  calling  to  be  uncomfortable  himself  or  to 
make  all  posterity  uncomfortable  with  his  discomforts  care- 
fully set  down  in  writing,  who  has  in  his  soul  some  trace  of 
the  genuine  Greek  mood  together  with  some  knowledge  of 
the  old  Greek  world,  who  is  filled  with  an  undying  love  of 
its  beauty  and  with  a  genuine  enthusiasm  in  its  pursuit — 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  .      11 

what  will  he  not  see? — he  will  see  Helen,  or  at  least  he  will 
catch  many  a  new  and  more  distinct  glimpse  of  her. 

I  felt,  therefore,  that  I  must  go,  notwithstanding  the  good- 
natured  admonitions  of  friends,  and  I  concluded  to  set  out 
alone  and  afoot.  These  were  the  two  qualifications  for  the 
journey :  absence  of  a  companion  and  possession  of  a  pair 
of  good  walking  legs.  The  lack  of  an  associate  I  at  first  re- 
gretted, but  I  soon  came  to  believe  that  this  supposed  mis- 
fortune was  a  special  blessing  sent  from  above  against  my 
will  by  the  Gods.  For  one  man  will  be  taken  in,  when  two 
men  will  be  turned  away ;  two  men  are  company  for  each 
other,  one  man  must  find  his  company  among  the  people. 
Folks  are  more  inclined  to  talk  to  one  man,  whereas  they  will 
usually  pass  by  two.  Besides,  there  is  the  inestimable  lib- 
erty of  going  and  staying  where  and  when  you  please,  with- 
out having  to  compromise  with  a  companion  who  is  likely  to 
have  different  tastes  from  yourself.  As  to  brigands,  I  felt 
somewhat  skittish,  I  confess  ;  but  I  resolved  to  proceed  with 
reasonable  precaution,  and  if  matters  began  to  look  squally, 
I  would  put  pack  toward  Athens  with  decent  precipitation. 

It  was  on  a  bright  sunny  morning — Jan.  28th,  1879,  is  the 
exact  date — that  I  started,  and  with  a  brisk  walk  passed  up 
the  Kephissia  road  which  leads  to  Mount  Pentelicus,'  the 
first  stopping  point  in  my  destined  course.  The  crests  of 
the  mountain  rise  hooded  with  clouds  in  the  distance  before 
me,  while  the  Monastery  of  Penteli  lies  nestled  in  secrecy 
under  the  summits.  Recollect,  it  is  mid  winter,  yet  the  mild 
and  bracing  air  has  in  it  nothing  severe  or  inclement.  But 
that  sun — of  all  countries  on  earth,  the  sun  is  most  near  and 
dear  to  Greece.  When  it  passes  under  a  cloud  at  this 
season,  a  chill,  raw  wind  springs  up,  the  temperature  sinks 


12  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

rapidly,  the  landscape  is  darkened  into  gloom,  and  man  falls 
out  of  the  happiest  mood  into  despondency,  or  is  assailed 
with  a  feeling  of  general  wretchedness.  Never  have  I  been 
jerked  through  such  rapid  changes  of  spirits  by  physical  mu- 
tations as  during  my  stay  at  Athens.  But  this  morning  Hel- 
ius  has  risen  up  in  full  splendor,  while  the  frosty  but  genial 
air  lifts  the  body  from  the  earth  and  bears  it  along  on  light- 
some wings. 

It  is  quite  impossible,  I  know,  to  transfer  to  the  vision  of 
a  listener,  scenes  of  detail ;  but  I  beg  you  take  my  eyes  now 
and  look  about  yourselves  as  you  pass  out  that  Kephissia 
road  with  me  slightly  to  the  northeast.  Yonder  on  the 
right  lies  Mount  Hyrnettus,  rounded  off  to  a  beautiful  swell 
along  the  horizon  ;  through  the  transparent  air  that  lies  be- 
tween, reach  out  your  hand ;  you  will  be  surprised  that  you 
do  not  touch  it.  The  top  of  its  ridge  is  thrown  into  a  wavy 
line  against  the  mild  blue  sky ;  on  that  line  far  up  there,  as 
if  in  the  paths  of  the  Gods,  you  would  fain  move  with  stately 
tread,  to  be  seen  of  all  the  world  below.  Treacherously  near 
does  the  mountain  seem,  distant  not  more  than  a  good  morn- 
ing walk ;  but  it  will  take  you  the  better  part  of  the  day  to 
reach  the  summit  of  that  ridge  and  return  to  the  city.  I 
know  it,  for  I  walked  out  there  once  before  breakfast ;  noon- 
day swept  over  my  head  in  a  chariot  of  fire  and  watered  his 
steeds  in  the  sea  ere  I  got  my  supper.  Of  all  the  mountains 
in  Attica,  Hymettus  will  grow  most  dear  to  3^011 ;  there  is  a 
honeyed  caress  in  its  look  as  it  lies  up  yonder  in  the  sun- 
beams ;  then  it  is  never  out  of  view,  it  is  always  hanging 
over  you  with  its  smiles.  Nor  will  a  close  acquaintance  les- 
sen its  charms ;  whole  days  have  I  wandered  over  it  alone, 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  13 

without  feeling  solitariness  or  fatigue.     To-day,  however,  we 
shall  not  go  there. 

Look  now  to  the  left ;  here  is  Mount  Lycabettus,  at  whose 
foot  the  road  winds  along,  and  whose  rather  abrupt  peak 
rises  up  over  the  city.  Its  summit  and  slopes  must  in  anti- 
quity have  been  covered  with  statues  and  colonnades,  gym- 
nasiums and  temples ;  now  the  whole  mountain  is  almost 
bare,  though  the  modern  city  is  beginning  to  creep  up  its 
sides.  On  its  top  is  a  small  Byzantine  chapel  inhabited  by 
a  solitary  monk,  who  lives  from  the  alms  of  the  believers 
who  toil  up  to  the  summit,  nor  will  he  refuse  the  pence  of 
the  unbeliever.  As  you  saunter  along  the  road  below  in  full 
Greek  mood,  you  will  look  up  and  behold  the  far-shining 
columns  with  frieze  and  pediment  that  once  lay  in  sunny  re- 
pose on  the  hillside ;  a  forest  of  glistening  marble  springs 
from  the  slant,  and  robes  the  entire  mountain  in  the  white 
folds  of  beauty.  Nor  will  you  fail  to  see  in  this  neighbor- 
hood the  Cynosarges  and  Lyceum,  famous  haunts  of  philos- 
ophers, for  here  Thought  too  built  her  most  enduring  tem- 
ple, and  from  this  spot  went  forth  to  conquer  the  world. 
The  groves  of  plane-trees,  the  shady  walks,  the  youths  wres- 
tling in  the  palestra,  Aristotle  walking  amid  a  group  of  eager 
disciples  and  talking  of  the  highest  themes,  you  must  bring 
along  with  you,  for  they  are  not  here  now.  But  the  river 
Ilissus  is  here,  just  at  the  road-side ;  yet  it  is  no  river,  not 
even  a  respectable  brook ;  in  the  summer  it  is  entirety  dry, 
and  in  the  rainy  season,  as  at  present,  it  often  has  no  water. 
As  I  go  down'into  its  bed,  and  walk  up  its  pebbly  bottom,  I 
can  not  find  water  enough  in  it  to  wash  my  hands.  Yet  the 
Ilissus  is  a  far  more  famous  river  than  our  Mississippi,  and 
will  probably  remain  so  ;  its  name  has  been  forever  preserv- 


14  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

ed  by  beauty  in  the  transparent  amber  of  ancient  literature. 
No  such  amber  has  yet  been  found  on  the  banks  of  the  tur- 
bid Father  of  Waters,  notwithstanding  his  color. 

A  similar  fact  we  shall  notice  everywhere  here  with  deep 
marvel  and  questioning :    all  things  seem  physically  small  in 
r  .    comparison  to  their  fame  and  influence.     Can  it  be,  then, 

ff  hat  spiritual  power  is  submerged  and  lost  in  bulk  ?  Streams 
AL  are  small,  mountains  are  not  large,  towns  are  small  and  were 
so  in  antiquity,  Greece  itself  is  hardly  more  than  some  Amer- 
ican counties,  Athens  in  her  palmiest  days  had  scarcely  half 
the  inhabitants  of  the  city  of  St.  Louis,  even  according  to 
the  last  census.  It  is  the  nature  of  all  things  Grecian,  that 
they  seem  to  be  characters  in  which,  though  small,  we  are 
able  to  read  the  Universe.  Though  the  types  be  little,  in 
them  can  be  seen  all,  just  as  well  as  if  they  were  large. 
Strange  it  is  that,  in  the  intellectual  culture  of  the  world, 
this  small  country  has  played  the  most  important  part :  more 
important  than  Rome,  more  important  than  even  Judea. 
Still  more  strange  is  this  fact,  that  its  influence  is  increas- 
ing to-day,  while  all  other  ancient  influences  are  relatively  de- 
clining. Why  is  it  thus  ? — why  is  it  thus  ?  we  ask  ourselves 
trudging  along  up  this  famous  little  waterless  river  of  Ilissus. 
The  question  will  often  recur  in  our  journey ;  it  is  indeed 
the  question  for  which  a  Greek  journey  may  well  be  under- 
taken ;  with  the  right  answer  to  it,  much  else  in  this  world 
will  be  answered. 

But  turn  around  now  and  take  a  final  good  look  at  the 
city,  before  we  pass  the  spur  of  Lycabettus,  when  it  will  dis- 
appear behind  the  mountain.  While  we  have  been  going  on 
the  road,  often  I  have  turned  about  and  looked  back,  though 
I  could  not  tell  you  so.  The  palace  of  King  Otho  lies  yon- 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  15 

der  on  a  rising  knoll ;  it  is  a  rather  heavy,  unwieldy  thing, 
manifestly  set  down  into  this  light  climate  from  a  Northern 
fog ;  no  genuine  Greek  brain  could  ever  have  conceived  that 
edifice.  It  is  the  work  of  a  German  architect — an  honest 
work,  one  may  truly  say,  but  ponderously  prosy.  Then 
there  are  palatial  residences,  built  in  the  latest  French  style, 
such  as  are  going  up  at  this  moment  in  the  new  streets  of 
Paris  ;  stucco  and  paint  on  the  outside,  common  brick  on  the 
inside ;  trying  their  best  to  look  like  solid  marble  with  a  sort 
of  Parisian  grace,  trying  to  seem  what  they  are  not — a  sham, 
architectural  lie. 

Do  you  know  where  is  all  this  unhappy  building?  Right 
in  the  presence  of  the  Parthenon.  Raise  your  eyes  now  out 
of  the  German  fog  and  the  French  glitter ;  on  yonder  summit 
in  the  background  of  your  view  stands  the  supreme  structure 
of  the  world.  It  looks  down  upon  its  city  with  a  joyous, 
tender  glance — as  a  mother  leans  OA'er  her  babe  and  smiles. 
For  twemVp-three  centuries  the  Parthenon  has  stood  upon  that 
height,  raying  its  beauty  into  the  world  ;  still  it  is  as  happy 
as  on  the  day  it  was  finished.  Robbed  by  barbarians,  batter- 
ed by  cannon,  blown  up  with  gunpowder,  it  is  yet  the  temple 
of  the  Goddess  Pallas  Athena  who  looks  out  between  its  col- 
umns with  delighted  pride  and  majesty  upon  her  favorite 
land.  It  is  wonderful  how  such  a  shattered  building  gives  a 
sense  of  hormony  and  perfection.  The  central  columns  on 
both  sides  have  been  blasted  outwards,  yet  the  unmatched 
unity  of  the  building,  even  when  seen  from  the  sides,  is  pre- 
served for  the  -eye  and  the  feeling.  As  long  as  a  single  drum 
of  a  column  is  preserved,  its  beauty  will  remain  ;  for  the  frag- 
ment bears  the  image  of  the  whole  work.  The  emotion  which 
this  edifice  calls  forth  can  not  be  told,  for  it  is  an  emotion ; 


16  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

you  are  caught  up  and  absorbed,  as  it  were,  into  a  new  sense 
of  harmony,  so  that  if  there  be  any  music  in  you,  it  will  be- 
gin playing.  You,  life,  the  world  turn  harmonious  in  its 
glance ;  strife,  discord,  anxiety  are  banished  in  this  new  at- 
tunement  of  the  soul.  I  should  say,  if  there  ever  was  a  song 
in  stone,  an  architectural  hymn  of  joy  and  hope,  there  it  is ; 
listen  to  it,  let  us  catch  the  note  and  carry  it  with  us  through 
the  entire  Greek  journey. 

But  those  old  Greeks  were  heathens — Pericles,  the  States- 
man who  caused  the  temple  to  be  built  and  supplied  the 
means ;  Ictinus  the  Architect,  who  can  make  a  marble  col- 
umn dance  with  the  grace  and  g&yety  of  a  Greek  maiden  in 
the  chorus  at  a  festival ;  Phidias  the  Sculptor  who,  according 
to  the  Greek  epigram,  actually  went  to  Olympus  and  brought 
down  its  deities  and  set  them  up  in  the  pediment  of  the  tem- 
ple— all  these  men  were  heathens,  living  in  the  time  of  the 
false  and  lying  Gods.  Still  I  confess  I  would  like  to  have 
lived  with  them  for  a  while,  long  enough  at  least  to  find  out 
whether  the  utterance  be  true  which  speaks  from  all  their 
works,  that  man  then  was  the  most  harmonious  being  that  he 
has  yet  been  upon  our  planet,  so  far  as  he  has  left  a  record 
of  himself. 

Now  we  must  pass  on,  unwillingly  yet  with  hope,  since 
there  is  an  absolute  certainly,  if  clouds  do  not  thwart,  that 
we  shall  see  the  Parthenon  again  from  new  points  of  view ;  it 
is  the  most  prominent  object  in  Athens,  in  all  Attica,  visible, 
some  say,  at  a  distance  of  forty  miles  in  clear  weather.  From 
every  point  of  the  landscape  the  look  moves  to  it  as  the  cen- 
ter of  radiance,  and  it  throws  out  its  smiles  in  return,  scat- 
tering them  in  golden  profusion  over  the  plains  down  to  the 
seas  and  up  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains. 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  17 

The  eye  drops  into  the  road  away  from  the  Parthenon,  it 
beholds  the  Albanian  peasant  bringing  brushwood  to  the  city. 
He  has  with  him  two  donkeys  and  two  women ;  the  bundles 
of  twigs  are  strapped  over  the  backs  of  the  donkeys  in  a  bal- 
ance like  a  pair  of  saddle  bags ;  the  women  stoop  obediently 
under  their  burden  of  faggots  which  is  also  strapped  to  their 
shoulders  ;  while  the  lord  of  creation  walks  alongside,  proud- 
ly erect,  with  majestic  stride,  but  without  any  burden. 
There  is  a  look  of  wild  half-civilized  independence  in  his 
bearing;  his  eye  drops  suspiciously,  if  you  glance  at  him 
closely.  His  linen  kilt  and  white  leggins  are  deeply  tinged 
with  overmuch  usage ;  out  of  a  belted  pouch  lashed  about  his 
waist  peer  forth  the  handle  of  a  long  knife  and  a  horse  pistol. 
It  is  manifest  that  the  women  have  the  worst  of  the  bargain 
of  life  in  the  case  before  us,  their  lot  is  worse  than  that  of 
the  donkeys,  for  these  have  the  advantage  of  not  being  com- 
pelled to  stoop  in  bearing  their  burdens. 

Look  and  let  them  pass ;  here  comes  another  group,  men 
and  mules  laden  with  green  herbs.  A  mule  brushes  me  with 
its  stores,  when  I  am  greeted  with  a  delightful  fragrance. 
Already  I  had  frequently  experienced  the  same  pleasurable 
sensation  on  my  way  to  and  from  Hymettus.  Certainly 
neither  the  man  nor  the  mule  gave  forth  that  pleasant  odor ; 
it  must  be  the  herb.  What  is  it,  and  for  what  is  it  used  ?  I 
learn  that  it  is  a  plant  of  no  less  fame  than  the  much-sung 
bucolic  thyme  which  smells  so  sweet  out  of  the  idyls  of  The- 
ocritus. It  grows  in  abundance  on  the  spurs  of  Hymettus, 
and  is  employed  in  the  kitchen  to  give  its  aromatic  virtue  to 
cooked  meats.  Such  is  indeed  the  difference  between  then 
and  now :  anciently  thyme  was  taken  by  the  poet  to  sweeten 


18  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

his  verses  with  delicious  fragrance ;  now  it  is  used  by  the 
cook  to  flavor  a  beefsteak. 

The  city  has  already  passed  out  of  view,  still  there  is  on 
the  right  hand  the  cheerful  company  of  Hymettus,  famous 
for  its  honey,  home  of  the  Attic  bee.  Again  note  that  undu- 
lating sky-line,  and  imagine  yourself  moving  along  it  to  the 
highest  SAvell  and  standing  there  in  solitary  Olympian  majes- 
ty. Every  point  has  become  familiar  to  the  eye,  I  may  say, 
friendly.  For  it  is  possible  to  have  a  deep  and  lasting  friend- 
ship for  the  mountain ;  it  is  not  fickle,  it  always  gives  you 
the  same  joyous  look,  and  subtle  nod  of  the  head.  It  lies 
there  in  the  sun  so  calm,  so  gracious,  with  such  a  soft  light 
sweep  in  its  outline  that  it  may  truly  lay  claim  to  a  plastic 
shape.  A  thin  haze  casts  over  it  a  slight  veil  of  blue  and 
gold,  without  hiding  in  the  least  its  form,  but  heightening  its 
characteristic  points  by  mild  touches  of  color.  A  few  miles 
to  the  left  lies  its  Attic  companion  Parnes,  snow-capped ;  but 
the  white  garment  disappears  about  half-way  down  the  side 
of  the  mountain ;  you  may  say,  that  the  old  slumberer  has 
put  on  his  robes  of  repose  for  a  good  long  sleep  during  the 
winter  night. 

I  leave  the  road  and  pass  into  the  adjoining  field  in  search 
of  a  ruin ;  an  ancient  aqueduct  could  not  have  been  far 
from  here.  Through  the  field  I  go  into  a  vineyard ;  peasants 
are  at  work  trimming  the  vines  for  the  joyous  nectar  of  the 
coming  autumn.  A  group  of  them  see  me,  and  stop  their 
work,  looking  spitefully ;  one  of  them  yells  at  me,  saying : 
"Get  out  of  here — the  road  was  made  to  walk  in."  The 
salutation  I  thought  a  little  rude,  though  I  felt  myself  to  be 
a  trespasser.  I  had  already  experienced  in  Italy  how  jeal- 
ous the  peasants  were  of  strangers  walking  through  their 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  19 

vineyards,  especially  when  the  grapes  were  ripe.  I  shall  not 
soon  forget  the  hearty  good-will  with  which  an  Italian  peas- 
ant answared  me  once  when  I  was  taking  a  tramp  through 
the  country  near  Frascati.  I  asked  him  about  the  way  to 
the  nearest  village,  when  he  said,  pointing  to  a  path  through 
the  grape  vines :  "  This  way  is  nearest,  but  don't  take  it,  for 
the  peasants  will  think  you  are  a  grape-thief  and  give  you  a 
bastonata.  Go  round  by  the  public  road,"  and  I  did  not 
hesitate  to  follow  his  advice. 

In  the  present  case,  however,  I  turned  aside  from  my 
course,  and  marched  strait  up  to  the  group,  asking,  perhaps 
a  little  tartly :  What  are  you  shouting  at  me  in  this  way  for  ? 
What  do  you  want?  The  peasant  who  had  called  out,  ob- 
serving my  foreign  accent  and  dress,  as  well  as  my  manner 
perhaps,  made  a  lunge,  without  saying  a  word  in  reply,  to- 
ward an  immense  wooden  canteen,  uncorked  it  and  held  it  to 
my  lips.  It  was  a  peace-offering  of  remarkable  power,  as 
well  as  a  sign  of  hospitable  welcome.  My  slightly  ruffled 
feelings  calmed  in  a  moment ;  I  accepted  the  token  with  the 
deepest  draughts  of  gratitude.  I  admired  that  humble  peas- 
ant's profound  knowledge  of  human  nature.  • 

After  the  fluid  had  ceased  its  pleasant  gurgle,  and  eternal 
friendship  had  been  pledged,  the  peasants  began  to  quiz  me 
about  my  nationality.  Are  you  a  Frenchman?  No.  Ger- 
man? No.  Englishman?  No,  by  Jove.  Thus  they  quite 
went  through  the  catalogue  of  nations,  I  provoking  them  al- 
ways to  guess  again.  But  they  were  unable  to  classify  the 
dubious  specimen  before  them,  and  at  last  I  told  them  that  I 
was  an  American.  At  this  word  an  old  man,  with  a  bright 
red  fez  slouched  on  his  head,  and  wearing  a  remarkably 
clean  shirt,  who  had  hitherto  been  silent,  came  forward,  and 


20  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

shook  me  heartily  by  the  hand,  saying:  "The  Americans 
and  the  Greeks  are  brothers!  "  I  looked  at  him,  and  was 
suspecting  that  this  sudden  burst  of  fraternal  affection  pro- 
ceeded from  the  recinato;  but  I  answered  him,  affirming 
with  warmth  the  same  sentiment,  for  I  felt  no  less  brotherly 
than  he  did  myself. 

The  old  man  then  recounted  how  shiploads  of  clothing  and 
provisions  came  from  that  distant  America,  as  it  were  from 
another  world,  during  the  dark  hours  of  the  Greek  Revolu- 
tion ;  he  stated,  if  I  understood  him  aright,  that  he  was  then 
a  soldier  and  was  saved  from  starvation  by  the  timely  arrival 
of  the  ship ;  he  added  the  fact,  no  doubt  important  to  him, 
that  potatoes  were  then  for  the  first  time  introduced  into 
Greece.  Thus  he  spake,  and  with  decided  emotion.  What 
could  I  do  under  the  circumstances,  but  drink  to  the  freedom 
and  prosperity  of  Greece?  It  would  have  been  ungrateful 
not  to  have  done  so,  according  to  all  laws  of  good  fellowship 
and  patriotism.  Therefore  a  hearty  bumper  to  fair  Hellas 
was  swallowed,  when  he  in  return  drank  a  handsome  toast  to 
America,  which  of  course  had  to  be  answered.  After  a 
pleasant  interchange  of  good  wishes,  I  prepared  to  start,  for 
that  image  suddenly  flitted  before  me  toward  Pentelicus,  dis- 
appearing with  a  wave  of  the  hand  into  the  clouds.  Yet  not 
without  a  final  bumper  to  the  company  did  I  break  away, 
skipping  off  in  happy  mood,  and  taking  the  friendly  conduct 
of  these  simple  countrymen  as  a  good  omen  of  my  future 
journey.  Yes,  I  can  truly  affirm  that  I  went  in  bett.er  mood 
than  I  came. 

I  believe  that  this  affection  for  our  country  among  the 
Greeks  is  genuine.  Everywhere  I  received  more  friendly  at- 
tention when  I  announced  my  native  land.  I  know  that  M. 


From  Athens  to  PenteMcus.  21 

About,  with  his  accustomed  satirical  scoff  at  all  things  Gre- 
cian, would  have  us  believe  that  the  wily  Greek  flatters  all 
nationalities  in  the  same  manner,  that  he  is  thoroughly  insin- 
cere and  mercenary  in  his  friendships.  I  can  only  say,  such 
was  not  my  experience.  But  it  is  my  emphatic  experience 
that  M.  About  in  his  book  on  Greece  is  more  desirous  of 
pointing  his  epigrams  than  of  telling  the  truth.  I  found  a 
very  discriminating  good-will  for  the  different  European  na- 
tions even  among  Greek  peasants.  Unquestionably  the  peo- 
ple have  the  most  affection  for  France,  because  France,  of 
all  the  Great  Powers,  has  shown  for  Greece  the  most  disin- 
terested friendship.  Also  the  Greeks  and  the  French  have 
not  a  few  traits  in  common — and  those  traits  among  the 
noblest  of  Human  Nature.  One  may  be  mentioned :  that 
aspiration  after  an  ideal,  above  all  a  political  ideal  which 
shall  bring  unity  to  nations,  and  secure  to  man  freedom  and 
social  happiness. 

On  the  other  hand  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  Greek 
has  at  the  present  time  (the  period  of  the  Disraeli  ministry) 
small  affection  for  the  English.  The  reason  is  manifest: 
England's  diplomacy  in  the  East  has  sacrificed  the  Greek 
race  on  the  ground  of  supposed  English  interests.  Turkey  is 
thought  to  be  the  sole  bulwark  against  Russia,  and  Turkey 
must  be  sustained.  So  the  Greek  lamb  has  been  thrown  to 
the  Turkish  jackal.  No  person  will  blame  the  Greeks  for 
their  dislike  of  England ;  no  candid  Englishman  will  blame 
them. 

Threading  my  way  through  the  vineyard,  I  came  to  the 
small  village  of  Chalandri.  The  church  is  the  most  impor- 
tant edifice  of  the  village ;  next  to  the  church  is  the  wine- 
shop, which  is  the  only  house  open  to  the  stranger  as  a  resort 


22  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

or  resting-place.  All  the  dwellings  are  walled  in,  and  seem 
to  be  hermetically  sealed ;  there  is  no  friendly  opening  of 
porches  and  of  doors  toward  the  street,  as  in  an  American 
town.  The  domestic  abode  turns  away  from  the  outside 
world  which  is  suspected  and  repelled ;  one  walks  through 
the  lonely  streets  enlivened  nowhere  by  children  at  play  or 
by  housewives  sewing  at  the  front  door ;  he  feels  as  if  shun- 
ned and  rejected  by  his  kind,  condemned  beforehand  by 
some  unjust  suspicion.  Oriental  seclusion  of  the  Family  is 
suggested,  perhaps  too  readily,  to  the  mind  of  the  traveler. 

The  wineshop  has  the  only  open  door  or  window  in  the 
town ;  there  I  enter.  It  has  no  floor ;  good  mother  Earth 
takes  my  wearied  feet  upon  her  bare  bosom.  There  is  no 
ceiling  overhead  to  hide  the  naked  rafters  which  give  sup- 
port on  the  outside  to  the  boards  on  which  the  tiles  are  laid. 
The  place  has  rather  a  dark,  cave-like  appearance,  forbid- 
ding, I  should  say,  were  it  not  for  the  huge  hogsheads 
which  are  disposed  in  a  long  row  on  one  side  of  the  room, 
and  which  contains  infinite  joys.  My  hearers  will  probably 
think  that  I  had  learned  enough  for  one  day  about  the  Greek 
wine-god ;  but  the  thirst  for  knowledge  of  Greek  divinity 
was  not  yet  stilled.  At  my  call  the  youth  in  attendance 
brought  a  clear  yellow  fluid  with  a  slight  sparkle,  for  which 
he  charged  me  at  the  rate  of  one  cent  a  glass. 

In  passing,  it  may  be  remarked  that  this  is  a  fixed  price 
for  many  articles  in  Greece — one  cent.  You  pay  for  a  cup 
of  coffee  one  cent ;  I  could  not  judge  of  its  quality,  for  I 
never  drink  coffee ;  you  pay  one  cent  for  a  glass  of  wine, 
often  excellent,  though  it  be  recinato ;  one  cent  for  a  glykis- 
ma  or  sweetmeat,  one  cent  for  a  raki,  one  cent  for  a  mas- 
ticha.  These  last  two  are  distilled  liquors  of  which  the 


From,  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  23 

traveler  will  frequently  be  called  upon  to  partake,  as  they 
belong  to  good  cheer  and  hospitality.  Of  course  they  are 
like  alcohol  the  world  over  when  taken  to  excess :  soul-cor- 
rupting, body-destroying.  Cheap,  antedeluvian  prices  still 
prevail  in  the  rural  districts.  I  recollect  that  a  merchant  of 
Arachova  sold  me  a  cent's  worth  of  thread,  required  on  ac- 
count of  the  secession  of  sundry  refractory  buttons ;  the 
generous  shop-keeper  threw  into  the  bargain  a  glykisma  or 
fine  titbit,  and  when  I  offered  him  an  additional  cent,  he 
claimed  that  his  profits  were  sufficient  without  it. 

I  must  now  make  you  more  fully  acquainted  with  a  merry 
companion,  who  will  accompany  us  throughout  our  Greek 
tour  and  furnish  us  many  a  happy  moment :  his  name  is  Re- 
cinato.  Everywhere  along  the  road  he  is  to  be  met  with ; 
you  will  find  him  in  the  humblest  hut  of  the  peasant,  where 
he  takes  his  place  at  the  hearth  in  the  evening  with  the  guests, 
lighting  up  the  dark  abode  with  unaccountable  flashes.  I 
confess  that  I  was  at  first  shocked  by  his  peculiarities,  but 
when  I  became  used  to  them,  I  rather  liked  him  the  better 
for  them.  He  is  emphatically  Greek,  inspires  the  Greek 
mood,  has  within  him  the  Greek  exhilaration  ;  Greek  subtle- 
ty he  possesses  too,  a  sly  way  of  creeping  upon  you  with  his 
flattering  caresses  ere  you  be  fully  aware  of  his  presence. 
Hardly  is  he  to  be  met  with  outside  of  Greece,  but  here  he 
reigns  without  a  rival  in  his  particular  sphere ;  indeed  Greece 
would  not  be  Greece  without  him.  Strangers  often  complain 
of  his  bad  taste ;  but  why  dispute  about  tastes  ?  Faithful  to 
the  last  degree,  in  an  eternal  flow  of  high  spirits,  always  bub- 
bling over  with  merriment — such  is  our  jolly  rustic  Greek 
companion,  Recinato,  that  is  Resinate  or  resined  wine,  whom 
we  shall  never  fail  to  celebrate  with  many  feelings  of  grati- 


24  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

tude.  Do  not  forget  his  name — he  will  be  often  alluded  to. 
Dropping  now  his  personality,  I  may  state  that  this  wine  is 
prepared  by  adding  a  crude  resinous  substance  to  the  juice 
of  the  grape  at  a  certain  stage  of  fermentation.  Along  the 
road  the  gum  can  be  seen  issuing  from  the  pine-trees  which 
have  been  chipped  for  this  purpose.  The  taste  of  the  wine 
becomes  like  the  taste  of  pitch,  or,  as  some  say,  of  sealing- 
wax.  At  the  first  effort  to  drink  this  wine  nature  revolts, 
sometimes  revolutionizes  ;  only  after  much  preliminary  train- 
ing and  chastising  does  the  rebellious  palate  suffer  this  fluid 
to  pass  its  portal.  As  it  was  my  rule  to  eat  and  drink,  or 
learn  to  eat  and  drink  what  the  people  of  the  countries  I  vis- 
ited ate  and  drank,  I  began  with  recinato  shortly  after  my 
arrival  at  Athens.  In  two  or  three  weeks  I  no  longer  noticed 
the  pitchy  taste  in  the  wine,  except  by  a  special  effort.  Other 
kinds  of  wines  are  obtainable  in  the  city,  but  in  the  country 
nothing  else  but  recinato  is  to  be  found  ;  hence  the  necessity 
of  a  previous  training  to  this  drink,  if  one  wishes  to  travel  in 
the  provinces,  for  he  can  not  do  it  on  water.  The  reasons 
given  for  treating  wine  in  this  way  were  two  mainly :  to  pre- 
serve it  from  spoiling  in  the  hot  climate  of  Greece,  and  to 
make  it  more  healthy.  The  ancients  also  had  this  method  of 
treating  wine,  as  appears  from  Pliny.  Such  is  our  friend  Re- 
cinato, merrily  hailing  xis  at  every  village  and  sometimes 
along  the  road ;  such  too  is  his  abode,  the  wineshop,  called 
in  the  dialect  of  the  people  Magazi — the  most  important 
house,  after  the  church,  in  a  Greek  village. 

This  is  an  Albanian  town,  and  the  youth  at  the  bar  informs 
me  that  here  within  five  miles  of  classic  Athens,  Albanian  is 
eht  language  of  the  inhabitants.  But  let  there  be  no  further 
delay ;  rest  and  refreshment  have  attached  fresh  wings  to  the 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  25 

body,  the  pedestrian  will  fly  into  the  street,  bound  for  Pen- 
telicus, now  rising  up  cloud-wrapped  before  him — in  real 
clouds,  I  mean,  and  not  in  wine-fumes,  as  you  might  sup- 
pose. "Women  in  their  white  smocks — not  a  night  dress  here 
— dart  shj'ly  through  the  streets  without  looking  at  him,  or 
take  special  pains  to  glance  in  the  opposite  direction  while  he 
is  passing.  Folded  over  their  forehead  above,  and  over  their 
chin  and  mouth  below,  is  a  linen  covering,  intended  to  hide 
the  grateful  portion  of  the  face  from  the  curious  eye  of  the 
male.  The  enlightened  traveler  will  again  curse  the  custom 
as  a  relic  of  Oriental  seclusion  of  women.  They  are  mostly 
stockingless,  their  bare  feet  are  slipped  into  a  sort  of  loose 
sandal ;  over  the  smock  is  sometimes  worn  a  white  woolen 
cloak.  On  the  whole  they  seem  lightly  clad  for  mid-winter ; 
but  their  white  forms  moving  along  in  the  distance  through 
the  clear  mild  air  give  a  joyous  Greek  impression  to  the  land- 
scape, as  if  it  were  dotted  with  living  statuary. 

Here  comes  a  maiden,  on  her  shoulder  bearing  water  to  the 
village  from  the  spring  in  a  vessel  like  the  ancient  amphora. 
She  turns  out  of  the  road,  looks  away  from  me,  and  adjusts 
more  closely  the  wrappage  around  her  chin  and  forehead ; 
still  I  peer  into  her  face.  Wild  irregular  features  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of,  burnt  to  dark  brown  bcy  the  sun  of  the  plain. 
It  is  manifest  from  this  and  other  glimpses  that  Helen  is  not 
here  at  Chalandri,  nor  is  she  to  be  found  among  the  Albanian 
race.  These  people,  usually  considered  of  Slavic  origin,  are 
said  to  have  come  into  Greece  at  various  times  during  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  they  still  preserve  unmixed  their  blood' 
their  language,  their  customs,  and  their  physical  character- 
istics. 

Thus  one  trudges  forward,  leaving  the  houses  behind,  and 


26  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

passing  by  the  spring,  from  which  the  maiden  came  who  was 
carrying  water  to  the  village.  Washers  too  are  here,  women 
with  large  undraped  limbs,  standing  in  the  cold  stream  snow- 
fed  from  the  mountains  ;  there  they  twist  and  writhe  in  dead- 
ly conflict  with  soiled  garments.  A  momentary  glance  the 
traveler  will  cast  at  them  for  the  sake  of  antique,  and  then 
modestly  turn  away.  Something  else  is  calling  which  must 
be  followed ;  a  good  road  leading  directly  up  to  Pentelicus 
will  not  permit  him  to  stray  from  his  goal. 

Into  this  road  let  us  enter,  a  brook  with  a  most  pleasant 
babble  meets  us,  and  keeps  us  company,  having  flowed  all 
the  way  down  from  Pentelicus  for  this  special  purpose,  as 
we  may  believe,  for  it  never  deviates  a  moment  from  the  side 
of  the  road  where  we  are  walking.  There  is  a  Greek  mood 
in  its  transparent  merry  flow ;  one  feels  eager  to  trace  it  to 
its  very  source  and  there  imbibe  of  the  happy  waters  to  see  if 
he  may  not  be  able  to  catch  the  secret  of  its  eternal  joys. 
Two  peasants  one  comes  upon,  stretched  along  its  bank  asleep 
on  the  stones,  without  the  protection  of  bush  or  passing 
cloud ;  their  mule  is  turned  loose  in  the  fields.  This  natural 
way  of  taking  repose  is  reposeful  even  to  others  ;  their  sleep 
is  as  refreshing  to  the  beholder  as  to  themselves. 

Now  I  beg  you,  bring  before  the  mind's  eye  the  pedestrian 
as  he  not  very  rapidly  winds  up  the  ascending  road ;  in  one 
hand  he  holds  a  staff,  in  the  other  a  small  bundle  tied  togeth- 
er by  a  strap ;  he  steps  lightly  through  the  air,  though  his 
wings  be  but  the  flaps  of  his  mantle  playing  in  the  stiff  north- 
west wind.  Often  he  turns  around  and  stands,  glancing  at 
the  ranges  of  mountains  which  bound  the  horizon  at  many 
different  distances ;  at  last  he  will  stop  and  sit  on  a  stone, 
looking  with  a  long  stare  full  of  wonder  and  delight  at  the 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  27 

golden  sport  off  yonder  between  the  clouds,  the  peaks,  and 
the  sunbeams.  Peer  into  his  face ;  whatever  else  you  maj- 
say  about  him,  good  and  bad,  you  will  say,  that  now  he  is 
happy.  So  I  imagine,  every  other  human  being  would  be, 
were  he  alone  and  afoot,  going  up  Pentelicus  this  hour. 

"What  a  harmonious  day,  he  is  continually  repeating  to  him- 
self, a  truly  musical  day  in  which  all  the  elements  of  Nature 
are  joined  in  sweet  concordant  strains  with  the  soul !  It  is  a 
dajT  which  the  old  Greek  artist  would  set  to  music  in  a 
poem,  in  a  statue,  in  a  temple.  The  sun  comes  out  warmly, 
but  the  wind  from  the  snows  of  the  northern  mountains 
brings  along  the  spurring  freshness  of  the  season  and  never 
suffers  the  energies  to  droop  from  their  full  yet  easy  tension. 
With  the  raj's  cut  off  by  a  passing  cloud,  Boreas  has  no  modi- 
fier and  may  become  a  little  rough — but  this  discordant  note 
lasts  but  a  moment,  and  then  heightens  by  contrast  the  out- 
pouring harmony  of  the  returning  sunbeams.  The  summits 
line  after  line  swoon  away  in  the  distance  into  a  blue  etherial 
dream ;  far  off  to  the  left  they  sink  down  into  the  sea  whose 
hazy  purple  can  be  dimly  discerned  holding  in  tender  em- 
brace its  azure-girdled  nymphs,  the  islands,  fairest  of  whom, 
you  will  say,  is  Salamis,  with  a  thin  blue  veil  over  her  form 
floating  on  the  waters.  No  thought  of  peril  from  brigands 
introduces  a  jarring  moment  into  the  melodious  hours — but 
another  danger  has  arisen — worse  than  brigands :  that  plain, 
hea\y-shod  pedestrian  is  positively  in  danger  of  turning  sen- 
timental. "Who  would  have  expected  that  of  the  hard-head- 
ed son  of  Utility? 

But  let  him  run  liis  course,  there  is  no  curbing  him  now 
upoi|  this  spot,  since  his  and  our  main  occupation  here  as 
elsewhere  in  Greece  is  to  fill  these  deserted  fields  with  the 


28  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

forms  of  the  Past ;  for  all  this  nature  through  which  we  move 
is  but  a  frame  holding  an  ancient  picture,  now  quite  invisible 
from  accumulated  dust  and  mould  ;  yet  if  we  rub  it  with 
some  patience,  shining  faces  will  come  to  light,  of  divine 
power  and  beauty.  Yon  white  cloud  still  wraps  the  top  of 
Pentelicus,  who  refuses  to  uncover  and  salute  the  stranger 
approaching ;  but  below  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  can  be 
seen  large  white  spots  which  are  not  clouds.  They  are  the 
old  quarries  of  Pentelic  marble,  some  of  which  have  again 
been  opened  in  recent  times;  King  Otho's  palace,  for  in- 
stance, was  built  of  this  marble.  Thus  the  quarries  lie  there, 
glancing  afar — the  bright  eyes  of  the  mountain  you  may  call 
them,  through  glistening  tears  begging  to  be  made  again  into 
forms  of  beauty.  Nay,  the  whole  Pentelic  range  lies  there, 
a  thing  of  nature  waiting  for  a  new  transformation — for  a 
regeneration  put  of  nature  into  being  a  thing  of  spirit,  that  it 
may  thus  reach  the  highest  end  of  its  existence. 

The  wonderful  Avorks  of  Athenian  Art — temples,  public 
buildings,  thousands  of  statues  and  monuments — found  their 
matei'ial  in  this  mountain.  About  the  middle  of  the  fifth 
century  B.  C.  the  activity  here  must  have  been  at  its  height, 
though  it  continued,  doubtless,  for  ages.  At  that  period  the 
Athenians  must  have  been  quarrying  marble  for  the  Parthe- 
non, the  erection  of  which  had  been  resolved  on.  Along  the 
this  road,  over  these  fields,  what  a  busy  throng !  The  team- 
sters with  their  vehicles  in  a  line  quite  extending  to  Athens ; 
the  workmen  of  all  kinds,  the  overseers,  the  architects  up  to 
their  central  figure,  Ictinus — here  they  all  come  and  go  with 
incessant  din,  sometimes  not  without  conflict,  and  always 
with  great  outpouring  of  Attic  volubility.  Nor  will  the  trav- 
eler, growing  thirsty  and  hot  with  the  long  and  high-strained 


from  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  29 

quest,  forget  the  wineshops,  which  then  marked  every  turn  of 
the  road,  with  merry  publicans  dispensing  the  joyous  nectar, 
without  which,  as  a  very  foundation,  the  temple  of  Pallas 
Athena,  Goddess  of  AVisdom,  could  not  have  been  built. 

But  with  the  physical  eye  no  human  being  is  now  visible 
along  the  way  ;  no  wagons,  heavy-laden  with  blocks  of  mar- 
ble pass  you ;  all  is  silent,  deserted,  and  white  as  the  grave- 
yard. You  have  to  bring  your  people  with  you,  and  all  your 
objects  down  to  the  ox-cart ;  your  winehouse,  too,  has  to  be 
supplied  by  the  imagination.  As  you  go  through  the  fields, 
your  foot  will,  perchance,  stumble  against  a  stone ;  you  will 
pick  it  up  and  nick  the  edge  of  it ;  observe  that  it  is  a  very 
old  remnant  of  a  piece  of  marble,  in  fact,  a  chip  from  a 
block.  So  you  may  put  on  this  spot  a  workshop  of  Phidias 
where  the  material  of  his  statues  was  dressed  in  the  rough. 
As  you  look  sympathetically  at  the  fresh  break  with  its  crys- 
talline grain,  it  sparkles  and  smiles  right  in  your  eyes,  like  a 
broken  Greek  satyr  laughing  in  its  fragments. 

But  after  all,  the  most  interesting  figure  whom  you  can  see 
flitting  mid  these  solitudes  of  stone  is  Socrates,  the  Attic 
philosopher,  at  the  time  of  the  building  of  this  temple  not  a 
philosopher  but  a  young  sculptor,  hunting  here  for  good 
blocks  of  marble,  out  of  which  to  make  his  group  of  the 
Three  Graces.  Long  afterwards  this  work  of  his  could  be 
seen  in  the  Acropolis ;  of  its  artistic  merit  nothing  can  now 
be  definitely  affirmed.  But  behold  him,  the  mighty,  heaven- 
compelling  ghost,  for  the  sake  of  that  which  he  is  to  become ! 
In  outward  appearance  he  seems  to  pay  little  attention  to  the 
Graces ;  wrapped  in  the  careless  folds  of  his  himation  or 
blanket,  in  low  sandals  or  possibly  bare-footed  the  pug-nosed 
Greek  shuffles  along,  scenting  some  far-off  modern  world, 


30  A  Walk  in  Hella*. 

yet  quite  unconscious  that  he  is  to  begin  the  revolution  which 
will  not  only  break  to  pieces  the  Three  Graces,  but  hurl 
down  all  the  Gods  of  Olympus.  So  in  the  very  bloom  of 
things  is  the  germ  of  their  decay:  here  with  Phidias  the 
great  revealer  of  the  Gods,  moves  Socrates  having  in  his 
head  the  ripening  thought  which  is  to  destroy  them. 

Thus  the  rock  underfoot  still  glistens  with  graceful  smiles ; 
the  huge  boulder  will  show  its  origin  by  its  capricious  seams  ; 
the  bed  of  the  brook  is  marked  in  its  zigzag  course  through 
the  fields  by  a  line  of  white  glancing  pebbles.  Every  stone 
speaks,  and  points  up  to  Pentelicus,  declaring  that  it  is  still 
full  of  harmony,  full  of  Parthenons,  if  the  man  were  only 
here  to  make  it  give  forth  its  treasures.  In  its  night  lies  the 
most  beautiful  of  Goddesses,  the  sleeping  Venus,  she  that 
once  was  awake  in  the  old  Greek  world ; — who  will  rouse  her 
again?  In  its  depths  sits  still  the  Olympian  Jupiter,  the 
God  who  hurled  the  dark  brood  of  Titans  into  gloomy  Tarta- 
rus, but  has  now  in  his  turn  been  imprisoned  by  ancient  Chaos 
in  adamantine  fetters — where  is  the  Phidias  to  release  him  and 
bring  him  forth  to  sunlight  once  more?  In  the  olden  time 
these  rude  Pentelic  blocks  were  transported  to  Athens,  where 
they  found  breath ;  and  men  there  were  able  to  make  them 
give  forth  the  highest  utterances.  Of  all  the  great  deeds  of 
Athens  one  is  inclined  to  set  this  down  as  the  greatest :  that 
for  a  time  it  seemed  to  make  this  whole  Pentelicus,  rough 
chaotic  mountain,  leap  into  temples,  into  the  forms  of  Great 
Men,  Heroes,  and  Gods.  But  the  man  is  certainly  not  here 
now  who  can  do  this ;  Pentelicus,  though,  is  here,  silent,  in  ex- 
pectancy ;  but  it  vails  its  summit  in  a  white  cloud,  out  of 
shame  perhaps,  unwilling  to  look  upon  even  that  solitary  pe- 
destrian who  is  now  loitering  up  its  side  not  far  from  the 


From  Athens  to  Pentelicus.  31 

cloud-line,  into  which,  you  doubtless  think,  he  has  already 
entered. 

But  he  has  not,  I  affirm ;  he  still  can  see  and  can  be  seen 
distinctly  with  a  good  pair  of  eyes,  though  it  may  now  be 
necessary  to  strain  them  just  a  little  for  a  moment  to  meet 
an  unaccustomed  demand  upon  them.  Look  upward,  then, 
once  more  to  those  quarries  ;  the  earth  is  slightly  moving  and 
has  laid  bare  its  milky  bosom.  They  rise — innumerable 
sculptured  forms — they  spring  out  of  the  sides  of  the  moun- 
tain and  hurry  past  towards  the  city.  One  by  one,  in  silent 
glimmering  procession  down  the  slope  they  move,  or  at  times 
by  groups  they  march ;  each  is  wearing  some  mighty  thought 
in  his  shape,  or  is  filled  with  some  mighty  deed.  One  would 
like  to  question  them  as  they  sweep  by  in  Olympian  majesty, 
in  Bacchantic  joy,  in  Niobean  sorrow,  but  thousands  on 
thousands  they  hasten  bent  on  their  weighty  errand.  The 
plain  below  is  now  full  of  their  white  shapes,  they  line  the 
hills,  they  reach  to  the  shores  of  the  sea ;  still  they  are  mov- 
ing forth  from  rocky  beds  of  Pentelicus. 

But  listen!  What  sound  is  that?  It  echoes  through  the 
little  vale,  it  creeps  down  the  slant  of  the  mountain,  and 
spreads  far  and  faintly  over  the  plain.  But  with  its  vibra- 
tions that  whole  army  of  bright  plastic  shapes  is  swept  away, 
and  disappears  into  thin  air,  like  a  vast  throng  of  sheeted 
ghosts.  Only  the  empty  slopes  and  the  naked  fields  can  now 
be  seen, — 'but  the  sound  continues.  There !  it  smites  the 
sides  of  Pentelicus  again  rudely,  as  if  to  drive  off  the  demon- 
ic powers :  what  is  it  ?  It  is  the  bell  Monastery  of  Penteli ; 
before  the  edifice  we  are  now  standing,  on  firm  ground,  it 
may  be  hoped.  But  with  the  stroke  of  that  bell  we  drop 
through  2000  years  into  a  new  world ;  the  beautiful  Greek 


32  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

life,  smitten  by  the  keen  sound,  vanishes  into  a  dream;  in- 
stead of  the  white  folds  of  some  sweet  nymph  sporting  over 
the  summits  or  wading  in  the  brook,  yonder  in  the  landscape 
moves  a  dark  shape — it  is  a  Greek  monk,  with  melancholy 
stole  swashing  about  his  legs  as  he  hurries  to  his  prayers.  It 
is  indeed  a  new  world,  and  we  have  to  confess  to  the  truth 
of  that  later  medieval  legend  which  affirmed  that  the  ringing 
of  the  bell  of  church  or  cloister  had  the  power  of  putting  to 
flight  the  old  Gods.  But  we  belong  to  our  own  time,  let  us 
enter  the  Monastery. 


TALK  SECOND. 


From  Pentelicus  to  Parnes. 

THE  Monastery  of  Penteli  is  situated  in  a  beautiful  dell 
surrounded  on  all  sides  by  mountains,  with  the  exception  of 
the  narrow  pass  which  leads  us  into  the  sacred  enclosure. 
Streams  of  clear  water  play  through  the  grounds,  and  are 
conducted  in  artificial  channels  mid  a  grove  of  fine  plane- 
trees  ;  then  they  gather  into  a  single  current  and  dash  off 
into  the  valley  below  through  the  passage  up  which  we  have 
just  come,  turning  in  their  course  the  wheel  of  an  old  mill. 
The  entire  locality  bears  the  impress  of  some  large  fountain 
head  which  lies  in  the  spacious  bosom  of  the  mountains, 
whence  it  sends  its  benignant  streams  and  overflows  the 
thirsty  plains.  Nature  in  her  very  conformation  suggests 
here  the  inward  gathering,  the  contemplation  of  the  soulr 
and  also  its  outpouring  of  charity  and  blessing  upon  the 
world. 

The  building  which  encloses  the  court  looks  neat  and  un- 
pretentious ;  but  the  first  and  most  satisfying  impression  is 
the  perfect  repose  of  the  spot.  It  is  a  quiet  green  cradle  of 


34  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

Tranquility  set  down  between  these  rugged  summits  which 
overlook  it  not  without  a  touch  of  rude  tenderness.  The 
rills,  the  trees,  the  verdui'e  are  always  refreshing  to  the  human 
eye,  but  here  thejr  seem  to  have  a  new  virtue  as  being  an  off- 
set to  the  wild  towering  rocks.  The  hospitality  of  the  mon- 
astery is  offered  to  the  stranger;  something  to  eat  and  a 
place  of  rest  for  the  night  are  now  at  his  disposal ;  they  will 
be  accepted  if  Pentelicus  will  but  clear  up  his  cloudy  brow. 

No  monks  are  to  be  seen  just  now ;  they  are  at  prayer  in 
their  cells,  and  all  around  the  building  as  one  makes  the  cir- 
cuit of  it,  can  be  heard  the  low  mumble  of  reading  and  of  de- 
votion. They  are  indeed  at  work,  at  their  work  in  this 
world.  Now,  of  all  questions  which  arise  in  the  mind  sur- 
veying the  scene,  this  question  is  uppermost :  What  means 
this  monastery  here  amid  these  hills?  Fifteen  men,  as  I 
learn  on  inquiry,  dwell  in  it,  of  able  body  and  sound  mind, 
separated  from  all  society  and  domestic  life,  divorced  from 
the  institutions  of  the  world — what  business  has  such  a  thing 
to  be  ?  Here  they  remain,  passing  their  lives  in  this  secluded 
nook,  manifestly  doing  two  works  with  great  assiduity: 
whitewashing  their  house  and  praying.  Praying  for  what? 
For  dear  life,  at  least,  if  one  may  judge  by  that  confused 
multitude  of  low  voices  which  now  float  on  the  air  up  toward 
the  summits. 

They  have  made  this  little  vale  a  delightful  spot,  a  beauti- 
ful thing  amid  ruggedness,  and  the  eye  rests  upon  it  with 
joy:  so  much  is  a  manifest  gain.  Also  they  give  to  the 
weary  traveler  and  to  the  poor  beggar  hospitable  shelter  and 
f00(j; — but 'is  this  all?  This  could  be  done  without  prayer, 
or  at  least  without  such  an  organized  quantity  of  it — and 
without  such  a  life.  A  little  city  they  have  built  with  its 


From  Pentelicus  to  Parnes.  35 

walls  and  cells  for  houses ;  a  little  world,  indeed  a  spiritual 
world  they  have  here  all  to  themselves.  Why,  one  asks 
again,  has  this  thing  appeared  in  the  course  of  time,  and  why 
does  it  remain  with  us  still  ?  Having  such  a  problem  in  his 
soul,  the  reflective  traveler  turns  away,  and  begins  to  climb 
the  mountain  slowly ;  then  he  will  stop  and  look  around  at 
the  old  structure  again,  calmly  nestled  there  in  the  dell  mid 
the  plane-trees.  For  what  purpose,  then,  is  it  here  ? 

This  problem  rays  out  in  all  directions,  and  embraces 
many  other  problems.  Here  is  Pentelicus,  there  is  Athens  ; 
now  this  monastery,  rude,  helpless,  barbarous  edifice,  though 
it  be  tidy  enough — has  it  anything  to  do  with  yonder  Par- 
thenon which  one  can  see  in  full  distinctness  from  this  slant, 
resting  upon  its  sunny  elevation  in  happy  repose  and  perfec- 
tion? Yes,  there  is  a  connection,  indeed  the  one  is  a  de- 
scendant of  the  other,  remote,  degenerate,  but  still  a  descen- 
dant. This  is  the  question  then :  to  derive  the  Monastery 
from  the  Parthenon,  by  an  inner  spiritual  genealogy,  which 
is  written  down  in  Architecture  as  in  any  book.  Not  mere- 
ly the  structures  are  to  be  traced,  one  from  the  other, — they 
are  only  the  outermost  shell, — but  the  spirit  which  resides  in 
them,  which  built  them,  and  which  vivifies  them  still.  Both 
have  been  erected  for  the  dwelling-place  of  divinity ;  both 
therefore  express  what  is  strongest  and  deepest  in  man ;  both 
give  some  utterance  to  the  spiritual  principle  which  animated 
their  builders. 

It  is  on  the  ideal  side  that  we  must  connect  the  modern 
Greek  world  with  the  ancient.  There  is  still  here  an  ideal 
realm  of  striving,  of  hope  and  faith.  But  the  modern  Greek, 
smitten  with  the  curse  of  Turkish  supremacy,  perhaps  above 
all  other  Christian  peoples,  has  flung  the  real  side  of  life  to 


36  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

the  winds.  Earth,  man,  comfort,  even  cleanliness,  he  too 
often  casts  away  as  unnecessary  externals  belonging  to  this 
world.  Anthropos  einai  skolex — man  is  a  worm — continual- 
ly repeated  my  sometime  humble  bedmaker,  pious  Spiridion. 
How  different  the  old  Greek !  Instead  of  man  being  a  worm, 
for  him  the  divine  entered  the  human  body,  trained  it  to  su- 
preme perfection  by  all  sorts  of  exercise,  and  made  it  beauti- 
ful. With  him  divinity  came  down  to  earth,  entered  even  this 
Pentelic  marble,  and  molded  it  into  forms  that  revealed  the 
Highest.  Thus  there  was  the  happy  union,  the  complete 
equipoise  between  the  Real  and  the  Ideal,  such  as  has  been 
seen  the  one  time  upon  our  Earth.  All  became  harmonious, 
beautiful ;  herein  ancient  Greece  educates  the  human  race 
to-day. 

But  short  was  the  festive  May -day  of  that  old  world ; 
Time  soon  split  the  happy  unity  into  a  warring  dualism.  The 
Ideal  overbalanced  the  Real  and  cast  it  out ;  flesh  became 
sin,  the  Earth  became  the  abode  of  the  Devil,  Parthenon  fell 
into  ruins,  and  there  arose  the  Monastery.  And  what  is  still 
the  doctrine  of  the  Monastery?  Man  has  his  home  not  on 
Earth  but  in  Heaven ;  the  Ideal  belongs  not  here,  but  be- 
yond; what,  therefore,  is  the  use  of  a  comfortable,  not  to 
speak  of  a  beautiful  house,  when  we  have  to  move  out  of  it 
so  soon,  and  pass  into  an  infinitely  better  one  ?  The  Monas- 
tery represents  this  indifference  to  the  sensuous  appearance 
in  which  Art  reveals  itself ;  the  world  is  not  indwelt  of  the 
divine,  but  of  the  diabolic. 

Also  we  have  prayer  here,  incessant  prayer — which  is  the 
soul's  aspiration  and  indeed  momentary  elevation  into  that 
realm  beyond.  To  this  solitary  spot  human  beings  have  re- 
tired where  they  live  wholly  for  their  Ideal,  live  in  a  prayer, 


From  Pentelicus  to  Parnes.  37 

sometimes  in  an  ecstasy  which  almost  raises  the  body  into 
the  heavenly  Beyond.  Thus  the  break  between  the  Real  and 
the  Ideal  is  pushed  to  its  extreme  consequences,  and  is  still 
further  manifested  in  the  fact,  that  the  most  aspiring  and 
often  the  most  noble  natures  flee  from  the  world  and  deliver 
it  over  to  Satan,  who  in  such  case  is  quick  to  take  posses- 
sion. That  ancient  Greek  instinct  which  sought  to  form 
both  the  State  and  the  Individual,  nay  the  whole  universe, 
into  an  harmonious  work  of  Art,  is  now  lost  in  the  devilish 
reality. 

Everywhere  in  Greece  these  monasteries  are  to  be  found ; 
every  district  of  any  extent  has  one  of  them.  They  doubt- 
less answer  a  need  of  the  human  heart,  also  a  need  of  the 
community.  The  Ideal  must  have  some  place  of  protection, 
some  refuge  when  it  is  driven  out  of  society  and  institutions 
by  Turkish  oppression  or  other  untoward  visitation ;  else  man 
himself  would  relapse  into  savagery.  It  is  a  very  important 
matter,  this  preserving  the  Ideal  to  a  nation.  As  long  as 
even  a  corrupt  and  subjugated  people  retain  it,  there  is  in 
them  the  seed  of  regeneration.  Many  and  curious  are  the 
ways  in  which  it  seeks  to  preserve  itself.  Often  it  flees  to 
literature,  to  poetry,  to  romance,  to  the  construction  of  im- 
aginary commonwealths  in  which  it  sits  upon  its  own  throne, 
and  reigns  triumphant,  far  away  from  the  miserable  reality 
around  it.  Often,  too,  it  goes  to  the  cloister  and  there 
prays.  In  this  way,  every  large  community  has,  we  may 
justly  affirm,  its  idealists  locked  up  and  thus  preserved — for 
they  are  the  seed  of  the  good  time  coming,  and  an  example 
of  renunciation  for  the  sake  of  the  Beyond.  In  turbulent 
periods  as  in  the  Middle  Ages,  the  monastery  is  the  calm 
green  island  amid  the  tossing  and  tenebrous  ocean,  where 


317457 


38  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

upon  a  firm  foundation  a  light-house  may  be  built ;  but  in 
halcyon  days  in  too  often  attracts  the  idler,  who,  sure  of  his 
dinner,  gazes  slothfully  into  vacuity.  Modern  society  also 
drives  some  lofty  spirits  to  monasticism,  but  its  general  ten- 
dency is  to  call  them  back  into  life,  where  they  are  sorely 
needed. 

One  is  at  first  surprised  to  learn  that  there  were  far  more 
monasteries  in  Greece  under  Turkish  rule  than  at  present, 
and  that  they  were  then  more  encouraged.  Yet  the  second 
thought  will  show  us  that  this  is  simply  the  fruit  of  tyranny. 
In  such  a  wretched  reality  as  the  Turkish,  men  were  doubt- 
less very  eager  to  quit  the  world ;  the  better  the  men,  the 
more  ready  to  preserve  their  Ideal  in  the  only  way  possible. 
Institutions  were  the  instrument  of  oppression ;  who  would 
not  seek  to  get  away  from  them  and  pass  life  in  the  shady 
retreat  of  a  cloister  ?  Equally  to  the  interest  of  the  Turkish 
oppressor  was  it  to  furnish  some  outlet  for  the  more  aspiring  as 
well  as  some  shelter  for  the  more  timorous  of  their  enslaved 
subjects.  So  monasticism  has  flourished  in  the  Greek  pro- 
vinces of  Turkey,  it  culminates  in  Mount  Athos  or  Holy 
Mountain  in  Macedonia,  where  the  monks  burrow  all  over  a 
range  of  mountains,  like  a  vast  colony  of  prairie  dogs.  To 
such  a  state  has  the  Greek  Ideal  come !  Not  a  woman  is  al- 
lowed to  set  foot  upon  that  Holy  Mountain ;  Helen  herself, 
instead  of  causing  a  Trojan  war  for  her  restoration,  would 
now  be  banished  from  the  ideal  realm,  were  she  to  appear 
there,  in  all  her  antique  beauty. 

Therefore  we  must  turn  aside  from  Penteli,  with  no  ill 
feelings  for  it,  yet  with  the  fervent  hope  that  the  state  of  so- 
ciety which  rendered  monasticism  a  necessity  and  a  blessing 
will  rapidly  pass  away.  Come  out,  ye  mountain  hermits, 


From  Pentelicus  to  Parnes.  39 

and  again  as  of  old  be  conciliated  with  the  Real ;  put  a  little 
of  your  idealism  into  the  world — into  society,  into  politics, 
into  dress,  and  above  all  into  Art,  and  build  us,  if  you  can, 
another  Parthenon,  hew  us  out  another  Jupiter  Olympius. 
Here  at  your  very  sill  lies  Pentelicus,  praying,  if  I  mistake 
not  the  voice,  to  be  made  into  things  of  beauty  once  more  ; 
long  enough  has  the  old  mountain  sighed  with  the  imprison- 
ed forms  of  Gods  shut  up  in  its  chaotic  dungeons.  Set  them 
loose,  and  be  reconciled  with  us,  the  outsiders — give  to  us, 
wallowing  in  Satanic  mire,  a  breath  of  your  hope  and  ideal 
striving,  not  for  Heaven's  sake,  but  for  Earth's  sake. 

From  the  spur  of  the  hill  where  I  am  standing,  I  can  see 
another  house,  of  imposing  magnitude  for  this  region,  but  at 
the  present  time  deserted  and  falling  to  ruin.  It  is  situated 
on  a  beautiful  spot  overlooking  the  plain  below  which  extends 
across  to  Mount  Parnes  and  is  dotted  with  frequent  villages. 
Above  the  door  can  still  be  read  the  name  Plaisance.  I  ask- 
ed a  peasant  about  it,  he  said  simply  that  it  was  the  palace 
of  the  Duchess.  She,  though  long  since  deceased,  yet 
haunts,  it  is  said,  the  spot  where  she  once  dwelt  and  wor- 
shiped in  her  peculiar  way.  Combining  what  I  have  seen 
in  a  book  with  the  legends  respecting  her,  I  am  able  to  give 
you  the  following  account. 

The  Duchess  of  Plaisance  seems  to  have  been  one  of  those 
strong  female  characters  for  which  European  Society  has 
hitherto  not  found  any  outlet  in  a  rational  avocation.  One 
frequently  finds  them  stranded  in  the  oddest  places  and  in 
the  most  outlandish  ways.  This  woman  was  the  daughter  of 
a  minister  of  Napoleon,  was  married  early  and  unhappily,  was 
divorced,  when  she  set  out  on  her  wanderings.  After  many 
an  adventure  and  fierce  tempest,  she  came  to  Athens  to 


40  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

spend  her  remaining  days.  She  possessed  a  large  income 
which  enabled  her  to  indulge  in  colossal  caprices ;  these 
chiefly  took  a  turn  for  building ;  one  of  them  was  the  edifice 
before  us.  Here  she  lived  with  five  or  six  huge  dogs,  the 
favorite  one  of  which,  rumor  says,  was  sometimes  invited  to 
table  with  her  guests. 

But  the  most  remarkable  fact  in  the  career  of  this  remark- 
able woman  was  the  religion  which  she  was  going  to  found. 
Seeing  that  all  the  great  systems  of  belief  are  now  old  and 
somewhat  effete,  she  resolved  to  confer  upon  the  world  the 
blessing  of  a  new  one.  Exactly  what  its  tenets  were  has 
never  been  known,  and  they  were  perhaps  but  dimly  conceiv- 
ed by  herself  But  some  of  its  more  definite  doctrines  turn- 
ed on  the  institution  of  marriage,  as  was  natural  to  a  faith 
founded  by  a  woman ;  though  unable  to  manage  her  own 
marital  matters,  she  could  tell  all  about  it  to  others,  even 
settle  it  by  religious  precept.  A  great  altar  she  constructed, 
or  was  going  to  construct,  somewhere  on  Pentelicus,  from 
which  she  was  to  consult  Deity  and  receive  responses.  The 
altar  may  be  a  myth,  but  here  before  our  eyes  is  the  house 
with  her  name  upon  it,  built  right  at  the  mouth  of  the  defile 
which  leads  up  to  the  monastery.  It  is  just  in  the  spot  to. 
catch  every  monk  and  ecclesiastic  who  might  enter  this  pas- 
sage, seeking  the  way  to  the  religious  retreat.  I  imagine 
that  the  old  spider  put  her  web  at  this  place  in  order  to  net 
the  whole  church,  or  the  younger  monastic  portion  thereof 
as  they  passed  by  toward  an  ascetic  life.  A  strong  charac- 
ter she  was  at  any  rate,  strong  enough  to  have  her  own  God. 

Such  are  the  three  houses  with  their  associations  which 
Pentelicus  has,  somehow  or  other,  woven  into  our  narrative : 
the  Parthenon,  the  Monastery,  and  the  Belvidere  of  the 


From  Pentelicus  to  fames.  41 

Duchess — the  ancient,  the  medieval  and  the  modern ;  each 
of  them  is  characteristic  of  its  inmates,  each  designates 
epochs  and  religions. 

I  turned  around  and  again  looked  up  toward  the  summit 
of  the  mountain  ;  it  still  has  that  close-wrapped  turban  on 
its  head.  All  d&y  have  I  watched  the  bank  of  clouds,  rest- 
ing there  defiantly  on  the  top  and  sides ;  it  is  thick,  grow- 
ing thicker ;  its  boundary  now  is  so  definite,  that  it  seems  to 
be  a  part  of  the  mountain — a  white  marble  precipice  rising 
aloft  to  the  heavens.  On  the  other  side  lies  Marathon, 
which  one  will  be  eager  to  get  a  glimpse  of,  though  it  be  only 
in  the  dim  distance.  On  that  spot  our  Western  world  open- 
ed ;  the  sight  of  it,  along  with  what  it  signifies,  must  still 
possess  some  great  virtue,  one  may  well  imagine.  But  I 
may  never  be  able  to  reach  there  on  account  of  the  brigands ; 
so  a  view  of  it  must  be  sought,  even  under  difficulties. 

I  go  up  into  those  new  mountains — those  foggy  crags  piled 
on  Pentelicus  reaching  to  the  skies ;  the  almost  solid  bounda- 
ry I  pass,  and  enter  the  lofty  realm  of  cloudland.  Nothing 
-can  be  seen,  eveiy  outline  is  lost,  I  lose  myself.  But,  as 
you  may  know,  I  have  been  lost  before  in  the  clouds  ;  also  I 
have  been  often  supposed  to  be  lost  by  the  people  below, 
who  were  unable  to  see  me,  while  I  was  really  enjoying  the 
clearest  of  sunlight  which  lay  tranquilly  over  the  summits. 
In  the  present  case,  however,  as  in  all  similar  cases  of  fog, 
the  way  out  is  not  difficult,  one  has  only  to  follow  straight 
<lown  the  slope  of  the  mountain,  when  he  will  come  into  clear 
day  on  the  low  plains.  Not  as  fair  nor  as  far-reaching  is 
this  light  as  that  above ;  but  on  foggy  days  what  else  can 
one  do? 

Accordingly  I  came  down,  and  crossed  again  into  sun- 


42  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

shine.  Scarcely  had  I  passed  the  cloud-wall,  when  I  heard 
not  far  from  me  a  cracking  of  bushes  followed  by  the  bark 
of  dogs.  Very  soon  a  man  with  a  gun  came  to  view  creep- 
ing through  the  brushwood;  his  outward  appearance  was 
chiefly  made  up  of  a  wild  unshaven  face,  shaggy  capote,  and 
dirty  fustanella.  What  did  I  think  of  at  that  moment? 
Brigands,  you  will  easily  guess.  He  had  a  flintlock  and  two 
large  dogs,  I  had  no  weapon.  There  was  no  use  of  trying  to 
avoid  him,  so  without  hesitation  I  advanced  straight  towards 
him ;  to  my  surprise  he  did  not  raise  his  gun.  His  dogs 
fiercely  rushed  at  me,  but  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  pick  up 
a  stone  and  drive  them  off.  Leaning  on  his  old  flintlock  he 
calmly  awaited  my  approach,  and  then  at  a  distance  of  about 
five  paces  saluted  me  in  the  most  friendly  manner.  I  re- 
turned the  salute,  and  asked  him  quickly  where  was  the  road 
to  Kephissia.  He  pointed  it  out  to  me,  nay,  he  went  a  mile 
out  of  his  way  to  put  me  into  the  best  path.  In  the  mean- 
time, we  chatted,  asked  and  answered  the  questions  which 
were  natural  under  the  circumstances,  and  soon  were  on 
terms  of  intimate  friendship. 

Of  course  the  man  might  have  robbed  or  murdered  me 
with  impunity,  had  he  been  so  disposed.  Yet  he  showed 
only  kindness,  only  the  most  generous  endeavor  to  befriend 
me.  At  separation  he  warmly  shook  my  hand  with  the  best 
wishes,  and  raised  to  my  lips  his  flagon  of  recinato.  My 
thought  of  the  man  was  then  changed ;  I  believed  that  un- 
der his  shaggy  capote  made  of  course  goatshair,  there  beat 
not  only  an  honest  but  a  warm  heart.  He  was  a  shepherd,  he 
told  me,  and  his  flock  was  feeding  at  that  time  on  the  other 
side  of  the  mountain.  It  is  true  that  he  slept  out  of  nights 
the  whole  year  round,  that  like  these  shepherds  generally  he 


From  Pentelicus  to  Parnes.  43 

could  not  live  in  a  house  without  getting  sick ;  it  is  also  true 
that  he  ought  to  have  put  that  fustanella  of  his  to  soak  in  a 
brook  some  weeks,  if  not  months  ago ; — still  he  was  a  man,  a 
true  man,  not  a  brigand,  not  even  a  rude  boor.  This  inci- 
dent was  an  important  turning-point  in  my  journey ;  with  it 
much  of  my  anxiety  passed  away;  and  I  could  not  help 
laughing  a  little  to  myself  at  a  certain  person,  who,  I  am 
sure,  if  he  had  seen  this  shepherd  half  a  mile  distant  up  the 
mountain  among  the  brush,  would  have  run  off  to^  Athens 
and  said  that  he  had  seen  a  brigand  out  on  Pentelicus.  In 
some  such  way  that  scare  has  been  kept  up. 

So,  in  musing  mood,  accompanied  by  the  declining  sun  I 
walk  over  the  fields  to  the  road  and  soon  enter  the  village  of 
Kephissia.  It  was  famous  in  antiquity  for  its  pleasant  rills 
and  agreeable  air,  and  it  is  still  a  great  resort  during  the 
summer ;  the  diplomatic  body  generally  adjourn  hither  from 
the  intolerable  heat  of  Athens.  It  is  dusk,  I  pass  through 
the  main  street,  which  always  leads  to  that  shining  beacon 
of  tne  Greek  village,  the  wine-shop.  The  hunger  and  thirst 
of  the  weary  traveler  can  here  be  stilled.  This  was  my  first 
Greek  lunch  in  the  country,  so  it  may  be  of  interest  to  tell 
you  what  it  was  composed  of.  Recinato,  of  the  best  quali- 
ty and  in  the  greatest  abundance  at  the  smallest  prices ;  dark 
bread,  coarse,  of  unbolted  flour,  but  well-baked  and  good ; 
such  were  the  two  staples,  bread  and  wine.  For  something 
by  way  of  luxury  I  called  for  goat's  cheese.  This  cheese  is 
brought  in  little  granulous  balls  which  easily  crumble  and 
then  it  looks  like  our  dry  hand-cheese.  It  is  made  by  the 
shepherds  on  the  mountains  in  a  not  very  tidy  way ;  one  in- 
gredient is  often  found  scattered  through  it,  the  reason  for 
which  I  never  learned — namely,  the  goafs-hairs.  I  always 


44  A   Walk  in  Hellas. 

picked  them  out  of  mine,  thinking  that  they  had  no  business 
there,  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  they  are  pretty  general- 
ly included  in  this  cheese  and  seem  to  share  in  the  veiy  idea 
of  it. 

Butter,  in  the  occidental  sense  of  the  word,  is  not  to  be 
found  in  Greece ;  yet  I  am  always  afraid  that  you  will  think 
of  the  pun,  and  will  try  to  confute  me  by  pointing  triumph- 
antly to  oleomargyrine.  But  this  last  article  I  do  not  think 
has  yet  come  into  Greece,  even  though  it  may  sometimes 
have  come  out  of  it.  Butter-eating  Thracians  certain  bar- 
barians were  anciently  called  with  contempt,  in  contrast  to 
the  oil-consuming  Greeks,  civilized  men.  To  be  sure  there 
are  a  few  cows  here ;  Boeotia  and  Euboea  have  fine  cattle. 
But  the  small  picking  from  the  mountains  will  not  produce 
butter ;  only  goats  and  sheep  yield  milk  from  such  slender 
nourishment.  For  sheep  are  milked  in  Greece,  and  their 
milk  is  made  into  various  products  of  the  dairy.  Nothing 
will  better  illustrate  the  extreme  economy  of  this  country 
than  the  fact  that  sheep  are  milked.  The  American  farmer 
has  never  heard  of  such  a  thing,  and  sheep's  cheese  and  but- 
ter, brought  into  an  American  market  might  possibly  be  sold 
as  rare  curiosities. 

There  is  quite  a  detachment  of  soldiers  stationed  in  the 
town,  for  the  purpose  of  guarding  the  road  to  Marathon  lest 
timid  excursionists  get  a  fright.  As  it  is  a  holiday,  the  most 
of  the  soldiers  are  gathered  into  the  wineshop,  and  are  quite 
merry.  They  are  singing  Romaic  songs  with  that  jolly  whine 
peculiar  to  Greek  music.  All  the  talk  is  about  the  treaty 
of  Berlin,  the  new  boundary  of  Greece,  the  prospect  of  war 
with  the  Ottoman.  The  keeper  of  the  wineshop  is  flourish- 
ing a  huge  knife,  showing  the  manner  in  which  he  is  going 


From  Pentelicus  to  Parnes.  45 

to  sever  the  Turkish  head  from  the  Turkish  body,  should  he 
only  get  a  chance.  Patriotic  exhiliaration  does  indeed  pre- 
vail, but  there  is  no  drunkenness,  according  to  the  American 
conception  of  the  word  and  the  deed.  The  Greek  certainly 
deserves  his  reputation  of  being  the  most  temperate  of  men ; 
for  he  is  not  intemperate  even  in  his  temperance. 

A  soldier  observing  me  sits  down  on  the  bench  at  my  side 
and  talks  with  me  ;  he  speaks  Italian  well,  and,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  likes  to  show  off  his  beautiful  acquirement  to  his  as- 
tonished comrades.  He  is  a  good  patriot,  not  a  grumbler ; 
he  is  willingly  serving  out  the  time  of  his  conscription, 
though  with  privation  and  pecuniary  loss  as  he  affirms,  and 
as  one  may  well  believe.  But  his  dear  Hellas  can  have  his 
time  and  his  life,  if  necessary;  he  is  full  of  her  glories, 
though  he  deeply  laments  her  weakness  and  her  small  terri- 
tory. Still  he  thinks  that  she  has  performed  wonders  of 
progress  during  the  short  period  of  her  independence,  and 
he  believes  that  she  is  destined  to  be  the  bearer  of  light  and 
liberty  to  the  East.  She  is  to  rule  the  Orient  once  more,  her 
goal  is  Constantinople. 

Thus  thinks  the  common  soldier,  representing,  in  my  opin- 
ion, the  average  intelligence  and  character  of  the  Greek. 
For  in  his  character  there  is  still  a  high  aspiration,  an  ideal 
striving  after  improvement,  although  the  reality  may  be  dis- 
couraging. I  hail  him  as  a  comrade,  and  tell  him  that  I  too 
was  a  soldier  and  give  him  a  short  bit  out  of  my  campaign- 
ing. He  ends  by  inviting  me  to  bunk  with  him  that  night  in 
his  quarters — an  invitation  which  I  gladly  accept.  I  wanted 
to  see  how  the  Greek  soldier  fared ;  I  felt  perfectly  able  to 
endure  whatever  quarters  he  had  to  bestow,  even  down  to 
sleeping  on  the  feathery  side  of  a  board,  though  I  confess 


46  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

that  I  have  been  a  little  enervated  in  recent  years  by  the 
luxury  of  a  bed. 

The  bugle  blew,  my  soldier  had  to  go  to  roll-call ;  he  said 
he  would  return  in  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  and  conduct 
me  to  my  place  of  repose  for  the  night.  But  he  did  not 
come  back  so  soon ;  I  was  sleepy  and  tired,  and  could  not 
wait ;  accordingly  I  went  off  to  a  large  hotel  which  has  been 
built  here  for  the  purpose  of  accommodating  the  high  guests 
of  the  summer ;  but  at  the  present  season  it  has  only  an  excur- 
sionist now  and  then  from  the  city.  I  need  not  say  any- 
thing about  this  hotel  except  that  when  you  enter  it,  you 
step  out  of  Greece  into  Western  Europe.  You  will  get  there 
a  fair  bed  and  a  fair  meal  in  quite  the  same  fashion  as  in 
other  parts  of  the  world.  It  is  arranged  on  the  principle  of 
causing  the  traveler  to  live  quite  in  the  same  manner  that  he 
lives  at  home ;  so  that  in  this  way  he  may  travel  over  the 
whole  world  without  experiencing  anything  of  it,  substan- 
tially without  going  out  of  his  own  house.  My  regret  is  that 
I  did  not  get  to  bunk  with  that  soldier,  and  to  take  a  little 
glance  at  the  inside  of  things  in  his  quarters,  all  of  which 
would  help  to  fill  up  the  picture  of  Greek  life.  In  return 
for  which  I  can  now  only  tell  you  that  I  obtained  a  bed  and 
a  beefsteak — both  of  them  doubtless  old  acquaintances  of 
yours  that  need  not  be  further  described. 

But  as  soon  as  I  was  comfortably  seated  in  my  chair  be- 
fore the  fire,  who,  do  you  think,  came  in  from  a  belated 
journey?  None  other  than  my  friend  Achille,  the  gay 
Frenchman,  a  native  of  Paris,  with  whom  I  had  become  ac- 
quainted at  Athens.  A  merry  mocking  fellow,  of  exhaust- 
less  pleasantry ;  he  had  no  faith  in  any  God  except  Voltaire, 
the  mocker  of  all  Gods ;  for  Achille,  the  scoffer  at  authori- 


From  Pentelicus  to  Parnes.  47 

ty,  delighted  nevertheless  to  call  himself  a  Voltairian.  One 
other  authority  indeed  he  recognized  as  supreme :  his  Paris- 
ian cook.  I  had  before  noticed  that  Achille  always  snarled 
at  his  dinner,  and  then  fell  to  and  ate  it  with  a  relish.  It 
seems  that  he  had  taken  to-day  a  short  excursion  from 
Athens  to  the  country,  and  that  missing  the  road  he  had 
been  compelled  to  dine  with  a  peasant  on  black  bread,  salted 
olives,  an  oil  fry,  with  recinato.  Good  luck !  we  shall  now 
have  a  merry  evening,  I  exclaimed  on  seeing  him ;  but 
Achille  at  once  began  to  swear  violently,  employing  his  cus- 
tomary French  oath:  By  the  twenty-five  names  of  God! 
What  is  the  matter,  heroic  Achille  ?  He  told  his  story ;  al 
Greece,  what  she  is  now  and  what  she  was  in  the  past,  her 
literature,  art,  history  were  on  the  spot  judged  and  con- 
demned in  the  light  of  that  dinner.  He  even  went  back  to 
old  Homer  and  damned  him  and  his  Helen,  whereat  I  was 
touched,  and  attempted  to  reply  about  as  follows,  according 
to  my  recollection : 

'  'My  dear  friend,  why  do  you  lay  so  much  stress  upon  what 
goes  into  your  stomach,  when  you  exhibit  such  contemptible 
brain-work  as  the  final  outcome  of  digestion?  Socrates  had 
quite  the  same  kind  of  food  as  you  have  had,  probably  not 
so  good  with  Xanthippe  as  cook — yet  what  a  remarkable  dif- 
ference between  him  and  you !  Indeed  Plato  himself  fared 
no  better  in  all  likelihood,  yet  the  sweetest  philosophy  of  the 
world  he  extracted  therefrom,  while  you  extract  the  sourest. 
But  think  of  Homer  whom  you  calumniate — he  could  have 
had  only  bruised  barley  meal,  bruised  between  two  stones  in 
a  sort  of  mill,  and  a  little  occasional  meat  at  some  festival 
of  the  Gods,  with  wine,  likely  enough  just  this  recinato ;  yet 
out  of  his  bruised  barley-meal,  and  meat  roasted  before  the 


48  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

fire  on  a  spit  together  with  the  wine  he  has  constructed  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  poetical  worlds — a  world  which  stands 
a  good  chance  of  being  the  most  enduring  as  well  as  the 
most  beautiful.  I  ask,  has  any  man  like  him  come  out  of 
Parisian  cookery?  Take  the  old  Greeks — what  a  glorious 
result  they  produced  from  their  oil,  olives  and  barley !  Man 
is  what  he  eats  is  your  favorite  saying ;  then  give  me  the 
food  of  those  old  Greeks — and  it  will  not  hurt  you  to  take 
not  one  but  many  dinners  of  it.  Therefore  be  not  so  partic- 
ular what  you  put  into  your  mill  unless  you  can  improve  the 
flour.  I  tell  you  whom  you  most  resemble — that  crazy  man 
who  once  thought  Jupiter  had  descended  from  Olympian 
heights  and  and  was  seated  on  a  throne  in  his  stomach. 
Only  too  many  such  lunatics  are  running  loose  in  these  days 
— people  who  have  their  Gods  in  their  bellies.  Achille,  let 
us  now  go  to  bed,  in  the  morning  you  may  turn  back  to  the 
city  for  your  dinner,  but  I  am  going  to  continue  the  journey 
and  the  pursuit ;  to-morrow  I  shah1  ascend  some  Greek  moun- 
tain and  look  from  its  clear  heights,  or  possibly  march  with 
the  old  Hoplites  to  Marathon." 

But  Achille  long  continued  his  satirical  banter ;  particular- 
ly my  enthusiasm  for  Helen  was  the  theme  of  his  infinite 
mockery.  Under  his  hand  her  story  was  transformed  into  a 
modern  French  novel  of  illicit  love ;  her  character  grew  ten- 
fold more  dubious  than  I  had  ever  dreamed  of,  as  he  poured 
into  it  with  subtle  piquancy  all  the  details  of  the  latest  Paris- 
ian scandal.  Thus  with  no  small  skill  and  with  very  mani- 
fest relish  he  told  her  tale  anew,  bristling  now  with  keen 
points  of  ambiguous  ribaldry.  Nor  did  he  spare  me ;  he 
more  than  intimated  that  I  had  come  to  Greece  to  play 
the  part  of  Paris,  and  was  now  going  up  the  country  to  run 


From  Pentelicus  to  Parnes.  49 

away  with  the  wife  of  some  peasant  Menelaus.  Overwhelm- 
ed with  his  jibes,  I  could  only  answer:  O  Achille,  thy  name 
is  deserved,  thou  art  indeed  the  French  Achilles. 

I  set  out  early  the  next  morning,  long  before  Achille  my 
tormenter  was  awake  ;  about  sunrise  I  was  in  full  walk  for 
some  further  destination,  having  resolved  to  go  on ;  the  anx- 
iety from  brigands,  too,  had  quite  subsided.  I  know  of 
nothing  more  exhilarating  than  a  morning  walk  at  this  season 
of  the  year  in  Greece.  There  is  some  secret  intoxication  in 
the  air ;  every  mental  and  physical  energy  sports  of  itself  in 
frolicsome  mood,  yet  in  full  tension.  The  body  seeks  for  its 
wings,  every  step  is  an  attempt  to  fly,  man  has  become  a  fes- 
tival of  delightful  sensation.  That  morning  still  lives  in 
memory,  with  its  exuberance  of  happy  music  within,  its  sym- 
posium of  joyous  moods.  Yet  it  all  was  about  nothing  in 
particular ;  I  can  only  recollect  how  easily  my  feet  raised  in 
the  air,  and  how  hard  it  was  to  bring  them  down  to  the  earth 
again. 

Pentelicus,  not  far  from  whose  base  the  road  winds  along, 
is  still  capped  with  a  cloud  which  rests  on  it  with  adamantine 
stubbornness.  There  is  no  use  trying  to  go  to  the  summit ; 
you  can  see  nothing  and  will  lose  yourself  in  addition.  But 
on  the  other  side  of  this*  valley,  distant  but  a  few  miles  lies 
Mount  Parnes ;  not  a  cloud  dares  touch  its  tops  ;  the  snow 
glistens  from  its  peaks  with  an  unusual  keen  brilliancy  which 
cuts  through  to  the  eye,  as  it  glances  that  way.  Now  solve 
for  me  this  riddle :  Why  is  Pentelicus  always  covered  with  a 
cloud,  while  Parnes  stands  forth  free  and  shines  with  unsul- 
lied splendor?  Locality,  height,  configuration  can  not  ac- 
count for  the  difference ;  there  is  some  secret  which  nature 
whispers  to  set  you  at  work  in  a  deeper  vein.  Then  ansvv  er 


50  .4  Walk  in  Hellas. 

this  other  Question  of  a  spiritual  kind:  Why  are  some  men's- 
brains  wrapped  in  an  eternal  fog,  while  at  a  much  greater  el- 
evation other  men's  thoughts  rest  in  everlasting  sunshine?  It 
is  so  because  it  is ;  at  any  rate  I  am  done  with  foggy  Pente- 
licus,  for  I  now  intend  to  cross  over  to  Parnes  where  it  is. 
clear  on  the  highest  height. 

Thither  I  shall  try  to  take  you  along  with  me,  if  you  think 
the  company  good,  shall  let  you  have  a  fresh  breath  of  the- 
mountain  air,  furnish  you  the  exhilaration  of  climbing  the 
sides  of  the  steep,  but  above  all  give  you  a  look  from  the  top 
over  this  Attic  land  ;  for  a  look  from  the  top  of  a  mountain 
in  Greece  is  the  best  way  of  seeing  the  country  as  a  whole- 
and  of  feeling  its  highest  characteristic  influence.  Thus  we- 
can  to  a  certain  extent  look  down  into  this  honeycomb  of 
mountainous  walls  and  green  valleys  which  constitutes  the 
physical  individuality  of  Grecian  territory ;  thus  too  we  be- 
hold, through  the  transparent  atmosphere,  the  gently  sway- 
ing curves  and  outlines  which  Nature,  the  first  Greek  Artist,, 
has  filed  down  into  tender  lines  of  beauty. 

But  here  I  pass  by  the  bridge  of  Pekirmes,  small  and  in- 
significant, yet  its  name  has  been  printed  in  every  language 
of  Europe.  Near  it  was  committed  that  famous  act  of  brig- 
andage which  lias  done  more  than  anything  else  to  give  to  the 
Greeks  of  to-day  a  bad  name  throughout  the  civilized  world.. 
As  it  is  the  chief  text  from  which  all  detractors  of  the  Greeks- 
preach,  as  it  has  deterred  and  still  deters  the  majority  of 
tourists  from  leaving  Athens  or  its  immediate  vicinity,  as  it 
was  the  main  cause  of  my  hesitation  in  regard  to  this  trip,  I 
shall  deem  it  worth  while  to  give  a  little  account  of  it  here,, 
and  to  introduce  it  hereafter  on  suitable  occasion.  For  we 
shall  find  the  affair  still  lives  among  the  peasantry,  in  the 


From  Pentelicus  to  Parnes.  51 

most  vivid  recollection,  and  with  many  a  mythical  addition 
which  recalls  the  ancient  heroic  legend;  everywhere  along 
our  path  we  shall  see  it  bubbling  up  spontaneously  and  de- 
manding some  notice  from  the  observant  traveler. 

Near  the  spot  where  we  have  arrived,  on  the  llth  day  of 
April,  1870,  a  party  of  English  excursionists  composed  of 
Lord  Muncaster  and  wife,  Mr.  Herbert  and  Mr.  Vyner,  Mr. 
Lloyd  with  wife  and  little  girl,  Count  De  Boyl  of  the  Italian 
embassy,  were  passing  in  two  carriages,  on  their  return  from  a 
visit  to  Marathon.  Two  cavalrymen  rode  bel'ore  them,  two 
behind  them,  for  the  purpose  of  escort.  Suddenly  there  was 
heard  a  discharge  of  fire-arms,  the  two  troopers  in  front  fell 
from  their  horses  dangerously  wounded.  The  carnages  were 
then  halted,  and  the  company  found  itself  surrounded  by 
twenty-one  armed  men  who  at  once  hurried  their  captives  up 
the  mountain  into  the  brush,  with  many  demonstrations  of 
joy  at  the  successful  capture.  After  a  rapid  walk  of  two 
hours  the  brigands  stopped  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  ;  they 
sent  back  to  Athens  the  two  ladies  and  little  girl  as  being  ob- 
stacles to  the  sudden  and  speedy  marches  in  prospect. 

The  ladies  were  bearers  of  notes  from  the  prisoners,  an- 
nouncing the  ransom  demanded  by  the  brigands — $160,000; 
which  sum  was  afterwards  reduced  to  8125,000  with  new 
conditions  of  a  harder  kind  than  even  gold.  Also  a  threat 
was  sent  to  the  Greek  government  that  in  case  of  pursuit  the 
lives  of  the  prisoners  would  be  at  once  taken.  Not  without 
a  touch  of  gallantry  coupled  with  audacious  avarice  were 
these  wild  men  of  the  mountains.  When  the  ladies  set  out 
for  Athens,  the  chieftain  asked  for  some  precious  reminder 
of  the  event ;  he  preferred  a  gold  chain  which  the  lady  could 
buy  and  send  from  the  city.  She  on  her  part  with  a  co- 


52  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

quettish  dash  worthy  of  the  ball-room,  asked  of  the  chieftain 
a  souvenir  of  their  agreeable  intercourse.  Being  a  pious 
man,  he  gave  her  a  religious  token :  an  ornament  of  silver 
wrought  with  the  head  of  the  Virgin.  The  chain  was  in  due 
time  transmitted  to  the  brigand,  who  sent  it  back  by  the  same 
messenger,  stating  it  was  not  heavy  enough. 

On  the  third  day  after  the  capture,  Lord  Muncaster  him- 
self appeared  at  Athens,  having  been  released  on  parole  to 
arrange  for  ransom  or  free  pardon  of  the  offenders  ;  such  was 
the  alternative  which  he  brought.  There  was  little  question 
which  of  the  two  things  ought  to  be  done ;  the  money,  $125,- 
000  in  gold,  was  soon  packed  in  boxes,  ready  for  transport 
to  the  mountains  in  proper  business  fashion.  Behold,  how- 
ever, a  new  turn  given  to  the  proceedings  by  the  arrival  of 
another  message  from  the  chieftain  who  now  insists  upon 
ransom  and  pardon ;  amnesty  is  his  new  word,  that  is,  for- 
getfulness — forgetfulness  of  this  and  all  his  past  crimes  and 
those  of  his  band,  during  a  life  of  outlawry.  Clearly  brig- 
andage has  become  a  power,  a  Great  Power,  and  is  claiming 
recognition  among  the  governments  of  the  world.  The  chief- 
tain also  demanded  the  release  of  several  members  of  his 
gang  who  had  been  previously  captured  and  who  were  then 
in  prison  at  Athens. 

So  a  new  European  Power  has  suddenly  sprung  up  on  the 
declivity  of  Pentelicus,  and  is  determined  to  treat  with  the 
other  Great  Powers  on  terms  of  equality.  Beside  the  Greek 
government,  the  English  and  Italian  embassies  send  mes- 
sages, and  all  the  other  embassies  at  Athens  take  a  hand  in 
the  game,  sending  representatives  to  the  court  of  Takos 
Arvanitika,  King  of  Pentelicus.  The  diplomats  have  got  the 
matter  in  their  toils ;  what  hand  will  now  be  able  to  disen- 


From  Pentelicus  to  fames.  53 

tangle  the  complication?  Like  all  diplomacy,  the  affair  be- 
comes a  highly  intricate  kitten-dance ;  the  employment  of 
the  diplomatic  kittens  being  chiefly  to  run  after  their  own 
tails — perchance  to  catch  the  same  in  their  mouth,s,  and  then 
let  go  again.  During  this  play  of  the  kittens,  otherwise 
harmless  and  even  amusing  at  times,  who  can  hope  for  any 
serious  rat-catching,  now  imperatively  needed?  You  may 
perhaps  ask :  Who  would  expect  such  work  from  kittens  any- 
how ?  The  point  seems  well  taken. 

Meanwhile  the  prisoners  are  roughing  it  out  on  the  moun- 
tain— sleeping  on  bushes,  eating  black  bread  and  goat's 
cheese,  with  occasional  roast  lamb  or  roast  goat,  and  drink- 
ing that  horrible  recinato  which  tastes  like  a  mouthful  of 
sealing-wax.  Well-fed  Johnny  Bull  has  certainly  a  good 
reason  for  making  wry  faces  at  such  a  meal.  Think  of  him 
out  there  as  he  squats  down  to  his  repast  in  the  open  air, 
with  that  fat  face  of  his,  through  which  the  red  fibres  run  as 
through  a  thick  beefsteak.  We  would  like  to  help  him, 
though  we  laugh  at  him  a  little  ;  for  everybody  says  that  there 
is  no  danger,  and  the  first  London  newspaper  has  called  the 
whole  affair  a  comedy,  at  which  the  world  is  supposed  to 
have  the  right  of  being  merry. 

One  of  the  party,  let  us  give  thanks,  is  safe,  Lord  Mun- 
caster  did  not  retimi  to  the  chieftain,  though  he  had  promis- 
ed to  do  so.  There  is  no  man  of  a  generous  soul  who  will 
not  be  glad,  if  the  noble  Lord  shall  be  able  to  find  some  moral 
peg  stout  enough  to  hold  that  violation  of  his  parole.  I  have 
heard  of  two  such  pegs:  first,  that  the  brigands  changed 
their  terms  after  he  had  been  sent  and  obtained  the  money, 
thus  fulfilling  his  part  of  the  agreement  and  being  thereby  re- 
leased from  his  word.  Another  peg  not  so  strong  apparent- 


54  A  Walk  in  Helta*. 

ly:  that  the  brigands  had  changed  their  locality  in  his  ab- 
sence while  he  had  promised  to  return  only  to  a  given  spot. 
Query :  ought  he  to  have  returned  any  how?  You,  my  hear- 
ers— each  one  of  you — what  would  you  have  done  ?  Would 
you  have  gone  back,  like  Regulus  to  Carthage,  or  would  you 
have  cried :  Alas,  I  am  no  hero,  I  am  not  anxious  for  pos- 
thumous fame  among  unknown  future  generations. 

Here  we  shall  have  to  leave  the  prisoners  exposed  to  the 
raw  weather  of  Pentelicus,  complaining  of  the  hard  fare  and 
of  the  cold  rains.  One  of  the  brigands  has  to  sleep  close  to 
young  weakly  Mr.  Vyner  to  keep  him  warm,  out  of  compas- 
sion, we  hope,  and  not  for  fear  of  losing  his  ransom  through 
his  death.  Not  a  desirable  bedfellow,  one  thinks,  is  that  dir- 
ty fustanella.  The  affair  must  struggle  on  in  the  diplomatic 
web  till  some  outside  power  brush  the  obstacle  away.  Mean- 
while we  shall  trudge  forward,  at  our  customary  slow  gait, 
yet  often  stopping  to  look  over  the  pleasant  landscape,  whol- 
ly dismissing  the  problem  concerning  what  we  should  do  if 
such  a  band  of  wild  men  should  suddenly  pounce  down  upon 
us  from  the  mountain.  We  shall  repeatedly  cross  the  track 
of  these  brigands  with  their  captives ;  then  we  shall  tell 
something  more  about  them,  as  one  thread  of  our  little  novel 
here  interwoven ;  being  careful  not  to  tell  all  at  once,  for  that 
would  destroy  curiosity. 

We  have  already  crossed  over  the  intervening  valley  water- 
ed by  the  Athenian  Kephissus,  and  have  begun  the  ascent  of 
Parnes.  Let  us  take  a  long  step  uphill,  and  set  our  feet 
down  at  Tatoe,  ancient  Dekeleia,  which  was  fortified  by 
the  Lacedemonians  during  the  Peloponesian  war.  From 
this  mountain  nest  the  enemy  darted  down  and  laid  waste 
the  Attic  territory,  at  the  same  time  controlling  important 


From  PenteUcus  to  Parnes.  55 

Toads  leading  to  Athens.  In  recent  years  the  King  of  Greece 
has  built  a  summer  residence  here,  with  beautiful  grounds 
and  well-made  roads.  The  royal  family  is  at  present  in  the 
<nty,  but  the  grounds  are  open  to  the  visitor.  To  the  rear  of 
the  dwellings  are  the  barracks  of  the  soldiers  who  are  here  to 
guard  the  persons  of  their  majesties.  I  am  sorry  that  I  shall 
not  have  an  opportunity  of  introducing  you  to  King  George 
and  Queen  Olga  with  their  interesting  group  of  children. 
Still  I  can  not  help  whispering  to  you  my  doubt  about  having 
such  an  opportunity,  even  if  they  were  here.  Notice  these 
broad,  thick-soled  shoes,  this  knapsack  and  knotted  staff, 
this  long  stride  of  the  pedestrian ;  clearly  there  is  not  digni- 
ty enough  to  appear  before  royalty.  Notice,  too,  this  uncere- 
monious narrative,  defying  all  conventionality  ;  quick,  let  us 
get  out  of  these  royal  grounds,  so  regular,  so  rectilinear ;  let 
us  mount,  through  nature's  brushwood  and  boulders,  to  the 
rugged  top  of  old  Parnes. 

But  here  quite  a  large  company  passes — twenty  persons  or 
more — on  an  excursion  from  Athens.  They  are  English 
chiefly,  and  are  carefully  guarded  by  a  platoon  of  soldiers. 
Let  them  pass  rapidly,  for  their  rear  is  brought  up  by  a 
Scotch  lassie,  straggling  at  her  own  sweet  will,  and  quite  in- 
dependent of  the  rest  of  the  company ;  then  I  follow,  at  some 
distance  at  first,  but  graduaUy  approaching,  with  the  intent 
of  finding  a  pretext  for  getting  acquainted.  All  strangers 
thrown  together  in  a  foreign  land  have  a  natural  right  of  ac- 
quaintanceship without  an  introduction,  subject  of  course,  to 
the  refusal  of  either  party.  This  is  my  unwritten  law,  at 
least,  and  I  am  trying  to  obey  it  now. 

Why  should  I  recount  to  you  all  the  details — the  first 
glance,  the  first  little  act  of  attention,  the  first  little  word — 


56  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

the  English  word  spoken  in  a  strange  land  to  a  native  ear 
sympathetically  attuned  to  its  sweet  sound  ?  But  do  not  ex- 
pect too  much,  my  hearers ;  nor  should  you  love  gossip.  The 
Scotch  lassie  is  a  hard-headed,  imperturbable  person,  who  is 
going  to  fight  her  own  battle,  and  just  now  she  is  going  to 
climb  this  mountain  in  her  own  fashion  without  any  assis- 
tance from  anybody.  Plump,  with  red-faced  energy,  she 
grapples  the  shaggy  sides  of  the  old  monster  determined  to 
ride  him,  and  not  be  thrown.  Not  much  poetry  there  is  in 
her,  but  there  is  plenty  of  raillery ;  over  the  mountain  rings 
her  merry  laugh  which  reveals  rows  of  teeth  overlapping  each 
other  like  Scotch  granite.  Under  her  very  laugh  you  can  see 
granitic  virtues  of  many  kinds. 

As  we  gradually  ascend,  the  country  unrolls  before  us. 
All  the  mountain  ranges  can  now  be  distinguished ;  even  the 
high  peaks  of  Euboea  we  behold  running  along  and  finally 
gathering  into  one  highest  summit,  like  the  hunchback  of  a 
dromedary.  The  Scotch  lassie  tugs  up  through  the  bushes, 
puffing,  growing  redder ;  she  is  sometimes  caught  and  held 
fast  in  the  arms  of  a  rude  bramble  as  if  an  old  satyr,  hidden 
there,  had  reached  out  from  the  twigs  and  sought  to  embrace 
her,  the  rascal !  She  refuses  all  assistance,  she  can  help  her- 
self, and  takes  pride  in  showing  it,  as  she  clambers  up  the 
rough  sides  of  a  rock,  getting  down  on  all  fours.  Yet  she 
can  not  be  said  to  be  unfriendly ;  does  she  not  point  out  to 
me  the  scenery  which  changes  every  moment  with  the  change 
of  the  clouds  and  sunshine — now  light,  now  dark,  in  hurry- 
ing patches  over  the  landscape?  She  does  indeed  want 
somebody  to  enjoy  with  her:  so  much  of  human  frailty  she 
still  dimly  reveals. 


From  Penttlicus  to  fames.  57 

Under  a  strong  wind  a  dense  cloud  drives  against  the  side 
of  the  mountain  where  we  are  standing ;  we  see  it  approach- 
ing and  covering  us  with  thick  folds  ;  it  sheds  upon  us  a  lit- 
tle of  its  moisture,  then  like  a  huge  ball  it  is  rolled  topsy-tur- 
vy up  the  slope,  over  the  summit,  and  disappears  on  the  other 
side,  leaving  the  summit  as  bright  as  ever.  Parnes  manifest- 
ly will  suffer  no  obscuration,  but  Pentelicus  yonder  still  sul- 
lenly wraps  its  head  in  fog. 

Finally  we  arrive  at  the  top  where  are  the  foundations  of 
an  ancient  temple.  What  a  beautiful  situation  for  a  relig- 
ious edifice,  to  be  seen  from  afar,  shining  up  here  in  white 
Pentelic  marble !  Every  old  Greek  into  whose  eye  it  fell 
from  this  high  spot  as  it  were  from  the  Heavens,  would  ex- 
perience a  new  joy  at  its  quiet  beauty,  as  he  looked  up  at  it 
from  yonder  valley.  From  the  summits  of  the  highest  moun- 
tains these  temples  must  have  spoken  to  the  man  below  of  as- 
piration, of  the  labor  of  attaining  the  end,  of  the  beautiful 
harmony  when  that  end  is  attained.  Let  the  aim  be  high — 
behold,  it  can  be  realized,  if  he  but  climb.  Hither  he  labor- 
iously toiled  up  to  worship — the  ascent  being  a  part  of  his 
devotion,  the  toil  being  a  part  of  his  prayer.  Else  why  is 
this  temple  placed  up  here? 

The  Scotch  lassie  is  not  satisfied  to  go  back  with  me  into 
the  old  structure,  build  it  anew,  and  worship  with  me  there — 
she  is  a  rigid  Scotch  Presbyterian.  Instead  of  enjoying  these 
ancient  serene  harmonies,  she  wishes  to  struggle  up  higher, 
and  points  to  the  top  of  a  very  steep  precipitous  cliff  which  even 
overlooks  the  site  of  the  temple.  That  rock  seemed  to  be  the 
last  and  strongest  convulsion  of  Parnes  in  the  ancient  of 
days — there  it  quivers  upward  in  an  agony  frozen  to  stone, 
jagged,  distorted,  unfriendly.  Thither  accordingly  we  go; 


58  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

upon  the  point  of  a  rocky  splinter  she  sits  clown  and  seems 
for  the  moment  to  be  happy.  I  straighten  myself  up  beside 
her. 

Now  my  hearers,  imagine  me  perched  up  there  on  the  very 
highest  peak  of  the  last  throe  of  Parnes ;  on  tiptoe  I  stand, 
looking  down  into  the  plain  of  Kephissus — what  do  you  think 
I  behold  ?  Far  to  the  right  I  can  see  Athens ;  the  Parthenon 
rises  to  view  there ;  even  from  this  distance  its  whole  plan 
and  character  can  be  grasped  and  felt.  There  it  lies  in  the 
sun,  small  biit  joyous  as  ever;  though  no  larger  than  your 
hand  it  produces  the  same  happy  harmonious  impression  as 
if  you  stood  on  the  Acropolis  itself.  I  believe  this  to  be  a 
supreme  characteristic  of  that  edifice:  its  proportions  can 
not  be  obliterated  by  distance.  Nor  forget,  ere  it  passes  out 
of  sight,  another  distinction  which  it  possesses  above  all 
structures :  it  is  not  a  mathematical  measurement,  but  it  has 
the  spontaneity  of  a  lyric,  it  is  an  impulse  in  stone. 

But  there  is  something  else  which  I  see,  and  see  very  dis- 
tinctly, though  the  Scotch  lassie  laughs  at  me  when  I  try  to 
point  it  out  to  her.  Yonder  just  across  the  valley  a  long  line 
of  men  is  marching  round  the  base  of  Pentelicus ;  the  line 
extends  down  the  road  toward  Kephissia;  those  men  have 
evidently  come  from  Athens  within  the  last  few  hours.  The 
shining  helm  and  buckler  flash  across  the  vale ;  the  spears  in 
serried  ranks  with  sharp  brilliant  points  glitter  above  their 
heads  ;  fair  youths  on  plunging  war-steeds  bring  up  the  rear. 
Rapid  is  their  tread ;  those  men  are  manifestly  in  a  great 
hui'ry,  yet  they  set  their  feet  down  on  the  earth  with  a  firm- 
ness that  makes  old  Parnes  quake  to  the  very  top.  But  be- 
hold another  miracle :  the  clouds  lift  from  the  sides  of  Pen- 
telicus and  slowly  vanish  into  the  clear  sky  above :  there  is 


From  Pentdicus  to  Fames.  59 

revealed  beyond  it  the  plain  of  Marathon.  Innumerable  be- 
ings are  swarming  there  like  ants ;  thousands  of  white  sails 
are  making  pale  the  sparkling  face  of  beautiful  blue  Euripus. 
Still  the  Scotch  lassie  laughs,  laughs  contemptuously,  and 
call  me  a  dreamer. 

Nevertheless,  the  line  of  men  continues  marching  with 
steady  tread,  I  affirm,  for  they  have  a  purpose,  indeed  rather 
the  greatest  purpose  in  the  world's  history.  Several  persons 
who  might  be  named,  can  be  distinguished  from  this  dis- 
tance ;  still  their  names  are  often  rehearsed  as  a  sort  of  sa- 
cred symbols  of  the  race.  But  incontestably  the  first  man  of 
them  all, — the  embodiment  of  his  nation,  the  bearer  of  Eu- 
rope's hopes — is  marching  yonder  at  the  head  of  that  column. 
See,  now  they  have  turned  around  Pentelicus,  and  are  wheel- 
ing toward  the  Euboic  Straits.  Who  are  they,  do  you  ask  ? 
They  are  Miltiades  and  his  10,000  Hoplites,  hastening  to  the 
plain  of  Marathon.  Not  long  ago  the  news  arrived  at  Athens 
that  the  Persian  had  landed  there ;  the  trumpet  sounds,  the 
soldiers  rush  to  arms,  the  command  is  given:  Fall  in  and 
close  ranks — march !  In  six  hours  from  Athens,  with  a  sharp 
gait,  we  shall  meet  the  foe. 

What  shall  I  do,  what  would  you  do,  standing  tiptoe  on 
the  top  of  Parnes  and  seeing  that  body  of  men  pass  up  the 
valley  not  far  away  ?  I  at  once  bid  good-bye  to  the  Scotch 
lassie,  leaping  down  from  my  position,  and  hastening  along 
the  bushy  slope ;  I  do  not  believe  that  Helen  herself  could 
have  kept  me  there  any  longer.  I  am  going  to  follow  those 
soldiers  round  the  spur  of  the  mountain  whither  they  have 
gone,  with  as  little  delay  as  possible;  of  all  soldiers  that 
have  marched  in  our  world,  they  are  most  worthy  of  being 
followed.  Next  then  is  the  campaign  to  Marathon,  and  I  see 


60  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

that  you  all — every  one  of  you,  if  my  vanity  does  not  blind 
me — have  taken  your  places  in  the  ranks  and  are  eager  to 
march.  Forward,  then,  to  Marathon. 


TALK  THIRD. 


From  Parities  to  Marathon. 

WHEN  you  last  saw  me,  I  had  hurriedly  started  down  Par- 
nes  to  Marathon,  with  the  design  of  taking  you  along,  if  I. 
could.  It  was  a  svidden  spirt  of  enthusiastic  haste,  not 
wholly  consonant  with  the  golden  leisure  of  this  Greek  trip ; 
nor  did  the  time  allow,  for  the  sun  had  already  turned  his 
face  away  from  his  Oriental  home,  and  was  then  casting  his 
full  effulgence  somewhere  on  the  Atlantic  seas.  According- 
ly we  may  resume  our  customary  gait  and  saunter  along  the 
road  till  night-fall,  when  we  shall  seek  some  shelter  provided 
by  the  Gods. 

Unceremoniously  I  took  leave  of  the  Scotch  Lassie — so  I 
think  as  I  glance  back  with  a  little  longing  up  the  mountain. 
But  such  friendships  made  during  the  hours  of  travel  are  us- 
ually dissolved  as  quickly  as  they  are  f ormed ;  they  are  the 
most  evanescent  feature  of  the  landscape.  Still  travelers  on 
the  whole  will  do  well  to  obey  that  unwritten  law  which  has 
before  been  announced:  to  consider  themselves  acquainted 
without  the  formality  of  an  introduction.  Thus  several  hours 


62  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

rapidly  fly  away  with  pleasant  talk,  and  the  two  faces  having 
come  from  the  uttermost  corners  of  the  earth  to  peer  into 
each  other,  and  even  to  exchange  sympathetic  glances,  again 
flit  into  infinite  space — sometimes  not  without  a  mutual  sigh. 
So  the  Scotch  lassie's  life-road  with  its  manifold  turnings  and 
windings  crossed  my  rather  crooked  track  of  existence  out 
here  on  Parnes ;  for  four  hours  or  so  our  two  paths  ran  to- 
gether with  gentle  iutertwinings,  then  separated  to  all  eterni- 
ty, probably.  But  who  can  tell  ?  Perhaps  like  that  Greek 
njTnph  Arethusa,  nymph  of  the  fountain,  she  may  disappear 
in  Greece,  but  may  invisibly  pass  underground  across  conti- 
nents, nay,  across  oceans,  and  suddenly  come  to  the  surface 
again  in  far-distant,  unexpected  places  ?  At  any  rate  let  the 
pleasing  phantom  now  vanish — with  one  last  glance  at  the 
red  cheeks  and  wreathed  smiles,  and  I  can  not  help  adding, 
with  a  renewed  look  at  those  layers  of  Scotch  granite  slight- 
ly overlapping  each  other,  well-polished  but  somewhat  awry, 
always  seen  but  more  strongly  felt  beneath  her  very  laugh. 
She  is  not  unlovely,  but  made  of  adamant,  that  is  a  little 
crooked.  She,  with  that  round  visage  and  those  granitic  vir- 
tues is  not  Helen — though  she  may  justly  be  called,  I  have 
no  doubt,  a  better  woman. 

And  here,  since  we  have  contemplatively  resumed  our  or- 
dinary slow  gait,  a  reflection  has  intertwined  itself  in  the 
strand  of  our  experiences.  This  conflict  between  the  Mora 
and  the  Beautiful — where  does  it  begin  and  where  does  it 
end?  One  fact  seems  to  be  well  certified:  Art  and  Morali- 
ty have  a  tendency  to  become  mortal  enemies ;  they  have 
been  in  a  death-grapple  since  the  time  of  ancient  Homer  at 
least,  with  much  fluctuation  of  victory  from  one  side  to  the 
other.  Can  they  be  reconciled?  That  is  one  of  the  most 


From  fames  to  Marathon.  63 

serious  questions  of  the  human  soul.  There  is  doubtless  a 
limit  within  which  they  may  exist  in  harmony,  indeed  may  be 
helpful  to  each  other.  But  every  person  is  inclined  to  place 
this  limit  at  his  own  discretion,  and  often  to  place  it  quite 
out  of  being.  Certainly  the  extremists  on  both  sides  are  al- 
ways in  unappeasable  conflict.  Rigid  Puritanism  would  de- 
stroy Art  root  and  branch ;  it  has  no  solution  for  the  senses 
of  man  except  the  most  violent  repression.  Such  a  view  may 
prevail  for  a  time,  may  even  come  to  govern  nations ;  but 
then  follows  the  fierce  revolt  of  the  Senses  with  tenfold  retal- 
iation for  the  wrong  done  them.  In  such  a  debauch  both 
Art  and  Morality  perish  by  the  same  licentious  excess. 

But  Art,  on  the  other  hand,  is  inclined  to  cultivate  the 
sensuous  nature  of  man  and  neglect  the  moral.  Consider  those 
old  Greeks,  the  supreme  artistic  people  of  the  world,  in  their 
chief  fable.  Did  they  not  cross  the  sea  and  fight  ten  years 
in  order  to  bring  back  Helen,  not  because  she  was  a  good 
woman — good  women  they  had  at  home  in  abundance  and 
had  left  behind — but  because  she  was  the  most  beautiful 
woman.  It  is  only  a  legend,  let  it  be  granted ;  therefore  it 
is  truer  than  histoiy,  and  it  reflects  more  purely  and  ade- 
quately than  history  the  spirit  of  that  people  who  created  it. 
Then,  too,  what  a  large  number  of  good  women  were  sacrific- 
ed for  the  sake  of  Helen,  represented  in  Iphigenia  the  inno- 
cent virgin,  Andromache  the  devoted  wife!  Thus  it  has 
been  with  men  ever  since,  more  or  less ;  they  make  long  pil- 
grimages across  the  world  in  search  of  Helen,  when  there  are 
plenty  of  good' women,  indeed  better  women  than  Helen  at 
home.  What  is  the  meaning  of  it  all,  has  been  a  great  query 
with  the  traveler,  and  it  is  also  a  question  of  considerable 
importance  to  those  who  have  been  left  behind. 


64  A   Walk  in  Hellas 

Man  would  not  be  man,  could  not  exist  as  a  living  being, 
had  he  not  these  passions  and  senses ;  they  can  not  be  root- 
ed out,  ought  not  to  be  rooted  out,  which  deracination  the 
ascetic  view  of  morality  would  have  us  attempt.  What  then 
shall  we  do  with  them  ?  They  may  become  the  sources  of 
the  purest  pleasures  or  the  scourge  of  the  direst  vices :  get 
rid  of  them  we  can  not.  Here  Art  steps  in  where  the  rigid 
moralist  has  failed ;  it  says :  Preserve  the  passions  and 
senses,  but  elevate  them ;  allow  them  not  to  batten  on  them- 
selves, but  give  them  the  spiritual  world  to  feed  upon ;  thus 
they  will  be  satisfied  and  saved,  for  they  have  attained  the 
Beautiful,  and  in  that  realm  become  sharers  in  what  is  truly 
divine.  Helen  simply  as  the  runaway  wife  is  not  beautiful, 
nor  did  the  old  Greek  think  that  she  was,  hence  his  tremen- 
dous effort  to  rescue  her  from  her  ugly  condition.  But 
Helen,  repentant,  self-accusing,  longing  for  restoration,  as 
she  appears  in  the  Iliad ;  still  more,  Helen  restored,  living 
in  happy  unity  with  her  family  in  the  Spartan  home  of  Men- 
elaus  once  again,  as  she  appears  in  the  Odyssey — this  Helen, 
showing  the  long  struggle  overcome,  is  beautiful,  though 
morality  still  shakes  the  head,  and  will  not  admit  her  to  good 
society.  Always  jealous  of  her  beauty,  it  seeks  to  discredit 
her  present  life  by  her  past. 

Indeed  if  we  scan  the  legend  a  little  more  closely  we  shall 
see  that  it  contains  the  conflict  which  we  speak  of  and  its  so- 
lution. What  caused  Helen  to  err,  or  what,  at  least,  was 
the  occasion  ?  It  was  Beauty  in  its  sensuous  manifestation ; 
the  blooming  young  wife  of  the  Spartan  King,  the  fairest 
woman  of  Greece,  breaks  the  ethical  injunction,  abandons 
her  husband,  and  flees  with  the  handsome  Asiatic.  It  is 
thus  the  eternal  theme :  the  sensuous  element  of  Beauty  in 


From  Parnes  to  Marathon.  66 

conflict  with  morality.  But  what  did  the  old  Greek  do  La 
presence  of  such  a  problem  ?  Did  he  banish  her  entirely  to 
the  world  of  sensuality,  and  thus  damn  her  forever?  Did 
he  even  let  her  quietly  go  and  remain  in  her  alienation  ?  No, 
that  he  could  not  do  with  his  consciousness ;  restoration  is 
his  watchword,  Helen  the  Beautiful  must  be  able  to  live  in 
the  family,  though  it  cost  ten  or  twenty  years'  war,  though 
we  have  to  sacrifice  Iphigenia  and  many  other  good  women, 
though  we  immolate  our  greatest  national  hero,  the  youthful 
Achilles,  and  many  other  mighty  and  worthy  men  in  the  en- 
terprise. This  must  be  accomplished — this  return  of  the 
beautiful  woman  to  the  family,  this  harmony  of  the  sensuous 
and  ethical  nature  of  man ;  otherwise  the  Greek  people  can 
not  be,  have  no  business  to  be.  It  was  their  problem  in  this 
world,  and  manfully  they  fought  it  out,  producing  the  typi- 
cal figures  for  all  time — those  heroic  characters  after  which 
mankind  instinctively  models  itself  or  finds  itself  already 
modeled. 

And  then  what  a  harmonious  world  resulted !  The  living 
man  became  the  first  work  of  art  which  afterwards  could  be 
embodied  in  everlasting  marble.  There  is  the  happy  balance 
between  the  Real  and  Ideal,  between  the  Senses  and  Morals 
of  men,  between  Art  and  Virtue.  Homer  is  indeed  not  the 
most  rigidly  moral  of  books  ;  it  would  not  be  worth  much  if 
it  were;  but  of  all  artistic  books  it  is  doubtless  the  most 
moral.  That  Ulysses,  for  example,  always  trying  to  harmo- 
nize his  outer  and  inner  life,  seeking  to  make  a  complete  main 
of  himself  through  the  most  violent  contradictions,  is  still 
the  best  development  of  character  in  this  realm.  How  the 
two  sides  gradually  fell  asunder  in  Greece  itself,  how  moral- 
ity became  ascetic  and  art  became  licentious,  how  the  phil- 


66  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

osophers  assailed  poetry — even  Plato  banished  Horuer  from 
his  imaginary  republic — how  the  Ideal  was,  on  the  one 
hand,  utterly  destroyed  in  this  world  by  the  hard-headed, 
practical  Roman,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  was  relegated  into 
the  Beyond  by  the  prayerful,  spiritual  Christian — all  these 
matters  belong  to  History, — and  even  our  slow  and  pensive 
gait  will  not  allow  us  to  pick  them  up  and  string  them  on  our 
variegated  thread. 

Yet  do  not  think  that  this  change  from  the  ancient  world 
to  the  modern  is,  on  the  whole,  to  be  regretted ;  it  is  indeed 
an  advance.  Do  not  imagine  that  I  wish  to  restore  the  old 
Greek  life ;  vain  would  it  be  for  any  mortal  with  combative 
spirit  to  turn  his  face  against  the  World's  History.  Let  no 
man  with  puny  hand  undertake  to  grasp  the  reins  and  wheel 
about  the  mighty  steeds  of  the  sun-chariot,  now  rushing  at 
the  top  of  their  speed  toward  the  West,  in  their  swift  career 
around  the  world.  They  have  swept  over  the  ocean ;  almost 
within  the  memory  of  living  men  they  have  sped  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific ;  still  with  increased  rapidity  and  fiery 
vigor  they  are  whirling  onward  their  light-dropping  char- 
iot. No  longer  can  those  steeds  be  turned  out  for  quiet  pas- 
ture on  the  sunny  hills  of  pretty  little  Hellas.  Yet  for  us 
that  is  still  the  world  of  beauty  and  of  sweet  idyllic  rest ;  we 
are  still  in  need  of  its  soothing  harmonies,  and  we  have  to  go 
back  to  its  perennial  fountains  for  refreshment  and  repose. 
Therefore  let  no  Scotch  lassie  appear  any  longer  in  Greece 
with  her  granitic  beauty  and  more  granitic  Scotch  Presbyte- 
rianisro.  Personally  she  commands  our  highest  respect,  but 
in  the  country  of  Helen  we  would  ask:  "  What  art  thou  do- 
ing here,  thou  specter  from  the  land  of  mist  and  snow,  here 


From  Parnes  to  Marathon.  67 

in  the  sunlit  fields  of  Apollo  ?  In  the  regions  of  adamant  and 
ice  is  thy  home  ;  there  too  is  thy  meed. ' ' 

I  have  already  intimated  that  it  is  too  late  to  go  to  Mara- 
thon this  evening,  however  much  enthusiasm  may  goad  the 
drooping  limbs ;  accordingly  I  stayed  at  Tatoe  over  night. 
Early  the  next  morning  I  set  out  across  the  valley,  following 
those  ancient  soldiers  whom  I  had  seen  yesterday,  and  whom 
I  hope  you  beheld.     It  is  true  that  there  is  now  and  was  in 
antiquity  another  road  from  Athens  to  Marathon,  over  which 
some  of  the  soldiers  may  have  passed  to  the  field  of  battle, 
but  the  bulk  of  the  army  went  up  this  road  ;  for  did  we  not 
see  them?     'Tis  all  imagination,  some  of  you  may  cry  out: 
be  it  so.     But  I  maintain  that  the  great  eternal  fact  of  this 
spot  and  of  this  whole  valley  is  the  march  of  the  Marathon- 
ian  band.     Look  up  to  the  hill-tops  and  ask :  has  there  ever 
been  anything  else  here  but  that  one  event,  which  possesses 
any  vitality?     Look  up  once  more  and  question  the  land- 
scape :  is  there  anything  now  here  but  the  green  fields,  the 
low  brush,  the  stream  Kephissus — and  that  marching  line  of 
old  Athenian  soldiers?     I  would  never  have  be*en  on  Parnes, 
you  would  never  go  thither,  no  tourist  would  ever  be  passing 
contemplatively  up  the  valley,  were  it  not  for  the  presence  of 
those  old  Hoplites.     I  tell  you,  the  most  distinct,  the  most 
enduring,  the  most  real  thing  in  all  these  parts  at  this  mo- 
ment is  the  march  of  that  Marathonian  band  ;  in  fact  there  is 
nothing  else  here. 

I  am  free  to  say  that,  when  I  am  in  the  road  again,  I  do 
nothing  but  think  of  them,  the  heavy-armed,  with  steady  si- 
lent tread  winding  around  the  spur  of  the  mountain  before 
me ;  with  the  low  dull  thud  of  many  feet  they  tramp  along 
the  causeway,  and  I  with  knapsack  on  my  shoulder,  fall  into 


68  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

their  measured  gait  and  inarch  along,  keeping  their  regular 
steady  step,  bound  for  Marathon.  In  reflective  mood,  I 
should  say  the  most  of  them  were,  as  the  soldier  usually  is 
when  going  into  the  uncertain  combat.  But  what  one  of 
them  had  the  remotest  thought  of  that  which  he  with  his  com- 
panions was  doing — of  the  place  they  were  filling  just  at  that 
moment  in  the  history  and  destiny  of  our  planet  ?  Thus  are  we 
all,  could  we  but  see ;  each  individual  is  some  unconscious 
earth-sustaining  Atlas.  For  man,  every  man,  is  the  instru- 
ment of  an  almighty  power  which  brings  him  here  and  makes 
him  a  link  in  the  chain  which  supports  the  All.  Alas,  poor 
mortal,  with  the  full  burden  of  his  weakness  upon  him,  he 
must  aid  in  holding,  or  rather  as  a  link  he  must  actually  hold 
up  the  whole  Universe. 

But  to  drop  a  little  down  the  stream  of  Time :  there  is  an- 
other vivid  image  darting  through  the  air  and  vanishing  amid 
the  brushwood  just  in  the  locality  to  which  I  have  now  come  ; 
another  man  passed  up  the  road  in  recent  years  whom  I 
would  not  care  to  meet  at  present  in  this  solitude.  It  was 
Takos  Arvanitjka,  the  brigand  chief  with  his  band,  also  to  be 
called  Marathonian,  whom  not  long  ago  we  saw  installed  as 
King  of  Pentelicus.  Somewhere  here  he  passed  across  the 
valley  to  and  from  Tatoe,  guarding  savagely  his  English  cap- 
tives, as  we  find  in  a  small  diary  kept  by  one  of  them ;  he 
also  went  to  Stamata,  the  next  village,  where  we  shall  arrive 
in  due  season  if  some  successor  of  his  does  not  capture  us 
too.  Those  brigands,  dragging  their  unhappy  prisoners 
through  the  bushes,  dodging  the  Greek  soldiery  in  pursuit, 
tiger-fierce  with  continuous  alarm  and  in  one  case  preparing 
to  shoot  their  prisoners  in  cold  blood,  present  quite  a  con- 
trast to  that  ancient  line  of  heroic  shapes  rounding  in  solid 


From  Parnes  to  Marathon,  69 

tread  the  mountain.  The  wretched  picture  let  us  not  try  to 
fill  out,  it  is  too  melancholy,  it  will  obscure  the  brightness  of 
our  Greek  mood  which  we  must  preserve  in  the  joyous  sun- 
light of  Hellas,  through  which  we  move  as  through  a  thick  rain- 
fall of  golden  dreams  dropping  from  the  skies. 

We  may,  however,  at  this  point  introduce  a  short  account  of 
these  brigands.  They,  except  two,  were  subjects  of  Turkey 
and  did  not  live  in  Greece  at  all,  but  in  Thessaly.  They  had 
crossed  the  Greek  frontier  in  January  preceding  the  capture, 
had  previously  had  at  least  two  brushes  with  the  soldiers  of 
the  Greek  government,  in  which  the  band  had  lost  seven  men. 
They  were  tracked  from  place  to  place  but  finally  gained  their 
mountain  fastnesses.  Though  they  belonged  to  the  Greek 
church,  and  spoke  Greek,  yet  their  nationality  was  not 
Greek,  but  Wallachian. 

Diplomacy  during  all  this  while  continues  spinning,  spin- 
ning, with  little  purpose  except  to  delay ;  in  the  mean  time 
the  brigands  encouraged  by  their  friends  and  elated  by  suc- 
cess have  risen  in  their  demands  until  they  ask  for  that  to 
which  no  government  can  accede  without  absolute  self-anni- 
hilation. They  now  insist  upon  a  full  pardon  for  all  their 
crimes,  to  be  granted  before  condemnation  and  indeed  with- 
out trial.  Good  advice  is  cheap  after  the  event,  but  there 
was  only  one  logical  course  for  a  government  to  pursue :  to 
hunt  down  the  offenders  and  bring  them  to  justice,  for  which 
purpose  government  exists  among  men.  If  it  do  not  that,  it 
has  no  right  to  be  all.  Still  they  negotiated ;  the  Greek  min- 
istry permitted  too  much  outside  control,  particularly  from 
the  English  embassy  as  the  party  most  deeply  concerned. 
By  vigorous  pursuit  the  prisoners  might  perhaps  have  been 
killed  at  once  by  the  brigands,  perhaps  not ;  at  any  rate  mur- 


70  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

ders  of  foreigners  have  occurred  in  London  without  the  fault 
of  the  English  government  or  of  the  English  people.  Let  us 
not  then  abuse  the  Greeks  for  a  crime  which  was  not  done 
even  by  native  villains,  but  by  a  band  of  foreign  miscreants 
whom  the  authorities  had  tried  to  drive  away  from  Greek 
soil. 

But  the  unfortunate  fact  still  remains  that  to  the  eye  of  the 
traveler  as  he  goes  up  this  valley  on  the  way  to  Marathon,  in 
the  present  year  of  grace,  the  form  of  Takos  appears  with 
startling  vividness  alongside  of  Miltiades.  Nor  can  it  be  de- 
nied that  they  may  be  taken,  to  a  certain  extent,  as  the  re- 
presentatives of  their  respective  epochs.  The  one  is  clearly 
the  product  of  Turkish  disorder  and  oppression — bravery 
driven  out  of  society  and  turned  brigand ;  the  other  is  the 
offspring  of  free  Athenian  institutions,  and  is  now  marching 
out  to  their  defence,  at  the  head  of  heroic  companions, 
whose  adamantine  tread  around  these  hills  thunders  still 
through  the  ages  down  to  this  very  hour. 

Another  most  remarkable  fact  which  you  cannot  help  think- 
ing of  on  this  spot,  is,  that  each  of  these  men  could,  in  all 
probability,  have  understood  the  other,  had  the  two  spoken 
together  here.  Indeed  of  all  facts  connected  with  human 
speech,  by  far  the  most  notable  one  is  this  immortality  of  the 
Greek  language.  Not  as  a  mummied  tongue,  preserved  only 
in  books  docs  it  exist,  but  it  still  pours  out  of  the  hearts  of 
the  people  as  a  vital  fountain  of  utterance.  At  the  same 
time  it  preserves  more  than  any  dead  tongue,  it  contains  nearly 
all  the  chief  treasures  of  written  speech,  in  the  way  of  both 
education  and  religion ;  in  it  are  to  be  found  the  great  works 
of  heathen  culture  and  the  Christian  New  Testament. 

As  one  turns  around  the  mountain  he  will  stop  and  take 


From  Parties  to  Marathon.  71 

the  last  view  of  the  Parthenon  now  about  to  pass  out  of  sight. 
It  has  been  a  faithful  happy  companion  of  his  trip ;  always 
when  he  sits  down  to  rest  on  some  stone,  he  will  seek  a  place 
which  brings  that  temple  into  his  eye,  for  it  never  fails  to 
send  a  wave  of  quiet  delight  and  fresh  energy  through  the 
fatigued  members.  It  hands  a  drink  from  a  divine  source  to 
the  distant  thirsty  wayfarer,  who  starts  again  on  his  path 
with  new  hope.  Now  we  must  bid  it  good-bye,  as  it  sends  to 
us  its  graceful  benediction  from  the  blue  distance ;  we  shaB 
behold  it  no  more,  till  it  suddenly  rise  up  before  us  again, 
returning  from  our  journey  over  the  Athenian  hills. 

Thus  I  move  along  on  the  track  of  the  Marathonian  inert , 
sometimes  passing  by  a  small  orchard  of  olives,  though  there 
are  not  many  in  this  locality.  Of  all  the  trees  in  Greece  or 
Italy  this  olive  is  my  favorite  ;  it  has  the  prodigal  sparkle  of 
youth  and  the  full  joyousness  of  the  Greek  climate.  Then  I 
crouch  through  the  underbrush  by  a  narrow  winding  path ; 
often  gliding  among  the  bushes  the  Wallachian  shepherd  can 
be  seen  in  attendance  upon  his  flocks.  At  this  season  of  the 
year  these  shepherds  are  found  everywhere  in  Greece.  They 
are  a  nomadic  people  whose  home  during  the  summer  is  in 
mountains  of  Thessaly,  chiefly  in  the  Pindus  range. '  In  win- 
ter when  their  native  heights  are  covered  with  snow,  they 
pack  up  their  families  and  drive  their  herds  southward  to  the 
mountains  of  Greece,  whose  sides  are  covered  with  abundance 
of  green  browsing. 

But  when  summer  comes,  the  hills  here  are  parched  with 
drouth ;  vegetation  is  burnt  up  in  the  fierce  glare  of  the  sun- 
god  who,  the  old  Greeks  fabled,  smote  the  earth  with  his 
burning  arrows ;  the  arched  heavens  overhead  are  heated  like 
an  immense  bake-oven  raying  down  its  caloric  upon  the  roastr 


72  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

ing  earth.  Then  the  Wallachian  shepherd  flees  to  the  North 
where  his  own  mountainous  altitudes  furnish  in  their  turn 
verdure  and  a  cool  climate.  Thus  he  passes  and  repasses 
between  the  two  countries,  enjoying  the  happy  season  of 
each.  For  the  use  of  the  pasturage  he  pays  to  the  Greek 
government  a  certain  sum,  according  to  the  number  of  his 
flocks.  But  he  must  not  encroach  upon  the  cultivated  land 
— the  field  of  grain  or  the  vineyard ;  hence  his  presence  is  al- 
ways required  to  watch  his  charge,  there  being  no  fences  in 
Greece. 

His  black  herd  of  goats  and  white  herd  of  sheep  now  spot 
the  sides  of  Pentelicus,  as  you  look  up ;  the  low  continuous 
tinkle  of  their  bells  is  the  only  sound  that  reaches  the  ear  on 
the  sunny  air ;  absolute  quiet  you  find  here  into  which  that 
incessant  tinkle  chimes  with  a  sort  of  idyllic  refrain.  No 
factories,  no  railroads,  no  smoke,  not  a  wagon,  not  even  a 
house — nothing  but  sunshine  and  pastoral  repose.  Now  and 
then  a  shrill  whistle  may  be  heard  from  the  shepherd  when 
some  goat  passes  toward  the  tilled  field ;  sometimes  he  will 
throw  a  stone  at  it  for  a  warning  to  keep  off ;  sometimes  he 
utters  a  word,  calling  it  by  name,  for  like  the  shepherds  of 
Theocritus  he  seems  to  have  a  name  for  each  member  of  his 
flock.  More  seldom  you  will  hear  the  notes  of  a  flute  or 
panspipe — very  simple  music  indeed,  but  in  a  wonderful  har- 
mony with  the  life  here,  with  these  sunbeams  and  this  tran- 
quility  of  the  hills. 

You  will  see  the  shepherd  holding  a  long  staff  in  his  hand 
with  a  peculiar  crook  at  the  end  of  it — from  time  immemo- 
rial the  symbol  of  his  calling  as  well  as  that  of  the  Christian 
Pastor.  But  with  him  it  is  not  a  symbol,  he  does  not  know 
what  a  symbol  means  probably,  but  it  is  for  use.  You  will 


From  Parnes  to  Marathon.  73 

be  highly  entertained  to  see  him  employ  it.  Some  refractory 
ewe  must  be  caught  for  milking ;  he  seeks  at  first  to  grasp 
her  by  the  fleece,  once,  twice,  thrice,  and  fails;  but  this 
time,  as  she  tries  to  run  by  him  in  sheep  fashion,  he  throws 
that  hook  under  the  hind  leg  and  she  is  fast  and  perhaps  cap- 
sized. With  no  small  dexterity  is  the  feat  accomplished; 
then  he  flings  her  upon  his  shoulders  and  carries  her  off  with 
head  dangling  down  his  back. 

Wrapped  in  shaggy  capote  made  of  goat's  hair  and  imper- 
vious to  rain  he  stays  out  in  the  mountains  day  and  night, 
defying  all  changes  of  weather,  living  in  the  simplest  harmo- 
ny with  his  surroundings,  the  veritable  child  of  Nature.  Yet 
he  is  not  without  a  tinge  of  education,  often  he  speaks  and 
writes  Greek.  The  blazing  camp-fires  seen  on  the  distant 
hills  in  the  chill  of  the  evening  are  his ;  there  he  gathers  his 
herd  for  the  night,  drinks  his  whey  and  eats  his  curds,  and 
on  some  holy  festival  he  may  roast  a  lamb  in  honor  of  the 
Saint.  The  women  and  children  he  leaves  at  the  Wallachian 
village  which  is  constructed  mainly  of  poles  and  branches, 
and  has  to  be  built  anew  every  year.  Close  to  some  spring 
or  run  he  dumps  his  family  down  when  he  arrives  in  Greece 
from  his  Northern  home ;  there  they  remain  or  move  about 
from  place  to  place  till  read}'  for  departure  again  the  follow- 
ing spring.  But  the  shepherd  does  not  stay  in  the  village 
with  his  family,  but  drives  his  herds  into  the  hills,  where  he 
dwells  with  them  in  solitary  delight.  Some  twenty-five  hundred 
years  ago  an  ancient  bard  took  his  picture,  in  magnified  out- 
lines yet  true  to  this  day,  and  called  him  Polyphemus. 

The  language  of  the  Wallachians  is  not  Greek  but  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  Latin,  and  cognate  with  other  Romanic  tongues. 
It  is  often  said  in  the  country  here  that  they  speak  Italian,  but 


74  A  Walk  in  Hellax. 

this  is  a  mistake.  They  were  an  ancient  Roman  colony  and 
have  derived  their  speech  from  old  Rome.  Originally  it  is 
supposed  that  these  Wallachians  came  from  the  regions  about 
the  Danube  known  as  Wallachia,  or  ancient  Dacia  where 
most  of  them  still  dwell ;  but  in  the  great  migration  and  dis- 
placement of  nations  during  the  Middle  Ages,  a  fragment  of 
this  people  was  stranded  on  the  mountains  of  Thessaly,  where 
they  have  remained  ever  since  with  their  primitive  nomadic 
habits.  They  are  not  by  any  means  a  ferocious  race,  though 
some  of  them  become  brigands,  as  Takos. 

They  constitute  one  of  the  three  distinct  peoples  which  are 
found  at  present  in  Greece.  This  fact  you  should  carefully 
remember :  not  a  homogeneous  population  but  three  differ- 
ent peoples  are  now  living  on  Hellenic  soil.  These  are  the 
Greeks,  Wallachiims  and  Albanians — each  having  distinct 
customs,  language  and  character. 

Almost  in  a  straight  line  from  Parnes  to  Marathon  lies 
Stamata,  a  small  village  which  I  now  approach.  Just  out- 
side of  it  is  a  little  Byzantine  church  which  I  stop  to  look  at 
for  a  few  moments ;  the  structure  is  of  a  pristine  rudeness,  yet 
the  yard  shows  the  hand  of  care ;  it  is  not  devoid  of  interest, 
for  the  humblest  religious  edifice  has  always  a  significant  le- 
gend written  on  its  stones.  A  dog  sees  me  and  giving  a 
yelp  starts  towards  me  down  the  little  hill  from  the  village ; 
this  yelp  is  the  signal  for  every  dog  in  the  neighborhood ; 
here  they  come,  a  dozen  or  more,  with  hair  crawling  in  brist- 
ly folds  on  their  necks,  snapping  their  teeth,  rushing  up  be- 
hind and  in  front,  with  unearthly  barking  and  gnarling.  I 
at  once  ceased  my  contemplation  of  Byzantine  architecture, 
and  began  shouting  at  the  fiends ;  I  flourished  my  staff,  re- 
treated against  the  fence  of  the  church-yard,  and  succeeded 


From  fames  to  Marathon.  75 

in  keeping  them  at  bay  till  I  was  relieved  from  my  purgato- 
rial position  by  two  hunters  who  were  coming  along,  and  by 
a  youth  from  the  village  who  pelted  the  dogs  off  with  stones. 
This  was  the  second  unpleasant  experience  with  dogs ;  for 
the  tourist  afoot  they  are  clearly  a  problem.  But  I  found 
out  after  some  trials  of  him,  that,  though  the  Greek  dog  be  a 
great  blusterer,  he  is  really  a  coward.  His  chief  terror  is  a 
stone,  which  if  he  sees  in  the  hands  of  the  person  whom  he 
assails,  he  will  keep  at  a  safe  distance  and  in  lively  motion. 
Often  he  remains  perfectly  quiet  till  you  pass,  then  he 
treacherously  slips  up  behind  you  and  tries  to  snap  a  piece 
of  flesh  out  of  your  calves.  Or,  he  will  come  rushing  upon 
you  with  hair  erect,  looking  like  a  lion ;  but  if  you  reach  for 
a  stone,  he  will  bring  himself  to  a  stand  at  once,  or  quickly 
turn  back.  Often  he  will  ferociously  run  after  the  rock 
which  you  throw,  and  bite  it,  as  if  that  hurt  you.  He  is 
hard  to  hit,  being  an  excellent  dodger  and  in  continual  prac- 
tice. A  little  bit  of  malice  one  has  a  right  to  feel  against 
him ;  so,  after  I  had  learned  his  character,  I  took  delight  in 
over-reaching  him  in  this  way :  when  I  stooped  for  a  stone, 
I  would  pick  up  two  or  three,  fling  one  at  him  which  he 
would  run  after,  then  when  his  attention  was  turned  away 
from  me,  I  would  pepper  him  to  the  extent  of  my  ability  in 
projectiles.  If  you  are  as  much  interested  in  this  subject  as 
I  am,  you  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  I  often  succeeded  in 
sending  him  over  the  fields,  howling,  sometimes  limping. 
Once  or  twice  I  came  near  getting  into  trouble  on  account  of 
the  excellence  of  my  aim.  Every  shepherd  and  every  peas- 
ant has  two  or  three  such  dogs,  and  seldom  the  owners  take 
the  trouble  of  calling  them  back  when  they  rush  out  at  the 
stranger. 


76  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

The  Greek  dog  has  usually  a  wolfish  appearance,  as  if  but 
a  step  or  two  removed  from  a  wild  animal ;  a  large  black 
dog,  somewhat  like  a  mastiff,  is  also  seen ;  the  breed,  how- 
ever, is  mixed  with  many  varieties.  But  he  is  cowardly, 
blustering,  treacherous — even  for  a  dog;  I  confess  that  I 
have  a  prejudice  against  him  on  account  of  this  affair  at 
Stamata.  His  strictly  vegetable  diet  may  have  something  to 
do  in  modifying  his  courage.  So  much  for  dogs,  which  in 
addition  to  other  things  were  represented  at  Athens  as  one 
of  the  terrors  of  a  tour  afoot  in  Greece.  The  pedestrian  can 
now  manage  them,  and  may  find  some  satisfaction  in  punish- 
ing their  impudent  bluster,  while  defending  himself. 

One  of  the  hunters  invites  me  to  go  with  him  to  his  house 
in  the  village — an  invitation  which  I  gladly  accept,  passing 
through  many  a  snarl  of  the  large  canine  colony,  which  seem- 
ed in  no  hospitable  mood  toward  me.  It  is  a  poor  hamlet ; 
like  all  Albanian  villages — for  the  people  here  are  Albanians 
— it  is  built  on  one  very  wide  street  or  public  place,  fronting 
which  the  huts  are  erected  in  two  rows,  one  on  each  side.  In 
this  way  a  sort  of  enclosure  is  formed  which  may  be  used  for 
the  herds  of  the  village  and  will  probably  contain  them  all. 
Here  they  could  be  shut  up  in  case  of  an  emergency  and 
protected.  Thus  the  form  of  the  village  hints  to  the  traveler 
of  ancient  unsettled  times,  when  the  people  had  to  be  ready 
to  defend  themselves  and  their  own  against  the  sudden  foray 
of  the  robber ;  still  the  habit  of  building  remains,  though  the 
danger  be  past.  What  a  different  history  is  revealed  in  the 
shape  of  the  typical  American  town ! 

Guided  by  my  friendly  host,  I  enter  his  hovel ;  in  one  cor- 
ner is  a  fire  made  of  brushwood ;  there  is  a  small  chimney 
supplemented  by  a  hole  in  the  roof,  but  both  chimney  and 


From  Parnes  to  Marathon.  77 

hole  do  not  succeed  in  enticing  the  smoke  to  the  outside,  for 
the  room  is  now  full  of  it.  Still  I  soon  get  used  to  the  smoke 
though  it  makes  me  cough  and  even  cry  a  little  at  first. 
There  is  no  window  with  glass  panes,  but  a  simple  hole  in  the 
wall  with  a  board  over  it  answers  the  purpose  thereof ;  this 
board  shoved  aside  admits  fresh  air  and  some  light.  Still 
with  this  opening  it  is  rather  dark  in  the  room  and  I  can 
hardly  see,  but  the  pupils  of  the  eyes  soon  expand  and  every- 
thing becomes  visible,  nay,  luminous.  Happy  Nature  is  al- 
ways ready  to  adjust  herself  harmoniously  to-  her  surround- 
ings. There  is  no  floor  but  the  earth,  no  ceiling  but  the  nak- 
ed tiles  above.  This  room  may  be  called  the  parlor  of  the 
house,  to  enter  which  one  has  to  pass  through  an  adjoining 
room  which  is  the  stable ;  there  a  little  donkey  now  stands 
munching  his  fodder ;  he  will  turn  around  his  big  head  and 
look  at  you  as  you  enter,  pricking  up  his  long  ears  at  the 
strange  appearance ;  near  him  his  little  gear  hangs  on  a  peg. 
I  am  offered  the  chair  of  honor,  namely  a  three-legged 
stool,  by  the  fire ;  while  my  host  squats  down  on  a  mat.  Re- 
cinato  is  first  brought,  with  which  we  drink  to  each  other's 
well-being;  then  black  bread  and  olives  are  placed  before 
me,  and  he  insists  upon  my  eating — which  I  proceed  to  do 
without  delay,  as  it  is  about  noon  and  walking  in  the  Greek 
morning  air  whets  to  a  razor's  keenness  the  appetite.  Also 
he  takes  the  tronble  of  bringing  two  eggs  from  a  neighbor's, 
and  in  honor  of  his  guest  roasts  them  in  the  hot  ashes.  So 
we  banquet  there  before  the  fire,  certainly  to  my  great  sat- 
isfaction. Citizens,  having  heard  of  the  new  arrival,  call — 
one,  two,  three  in  succession ;  they  first  come  to  that  hole  in 
the  wall,  shove  the  board  aside,  thrust  in  their  kerchiefed 
heads,  and  give  a  friendly  salute ;  then  they  go  round,  and 


7*  A   Walk  in  Hellas 

enter  by  the  door,  and  when  seated  on  the  mat  drink  a  bump- 
er of  wine  to  the  health  of  the  stranger,  who  is  not  slow  to 
respond  to  such  kindness. 

In  the  conversation  many  a  little  hint  of  their  ways  of 
thinking  and  of  their  condition  is  brought  to  light ;  there  is 
no  school  in  the  place ;  no  priest  lives  here,  one  comes  from 
another  village  to  hold  sendee ;  nobody  can  either  read  or 
write,  nor  does  there  seem  much  ambition  to  change  this 
state  of  things.  Of  the  other  sex  only  one  old  woman  and 
two  little  girls  show  themselves.  A  picture  of  the  Virgin 
hangs  on  the  wall,  before  which  a  small  oil  lamp  is  kept  burn- 
ing. This  sign  of  devotion  greets  the  traveler  pleasantly; 
here,  too,  in  this  humble  cabin  there  is  a  recognition  of  some- 
thing higher  than  self,  a  belief  in  punishment  for  the  wicked 
deed  and  in  reward  for  the  good  deed.  That  is  assuredly  a 
protection;  yes,  the  Virgin  holds  her  shielding  hand  over 
thee  too,  unbeliever,  who  art  wandering  alone  through  Stama- 
ta.  Think  of  it ! 

I  have  already  told  you  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  village 
are  Albanians,  and  that  this  name  is  applied  to  one  of  the 
three  different  peoples  which  are  at  present  scattered  over 
Greece.  They  came  from  the  North,  doubtless  from  ancient 
Illyria,  pressed  hither  partly  by  the  migrations  of  the  great 
tribes  during  medieval  troubles,  and  partly  allured  by  the 
lands  of  Greece,  which  must  have  been  largely  depopulated 
at  that  period.  Their  language  is  usually  said  to  belong  to 
the  Slavonic  group,  and  themselves  to  be  Slavs,  but  the 
point  is  stoutly  disputed ;  recently  they  have  been  held  to  be 
even  of  Celtic  stock.  I  have  no  judgment  upon  this  matter ; 
but  I  confess  I  would  like  to  think  with  some  learned  men 
that  thev  are  ancient  Pelasjnc  remnants. 


From  Par-nea  to  Marathon.  79 

The  Albanian  is  tall,  slim  and  wiry ;  rather  taciturn  and 
dull,  and  I  thought  a  little  inclined  to  suspicion,  often  look- 
ing slyly  out  of  the  corner  of  his  blinking  eye  at  the  stranger. 
He  is  the  sole  agriculturalist  in  these  parts,  and  stands  in 
contrast  to  the  Wallachian  who  is  the  shepherd,  and  to  the 
Greek  who  is  mainly  the  tradesman.  Though  he  be  the 
ploughman,  the  Albanian  loves  the  gun  far  more  than  the 
plough ;  he  usually  goes  armed,  carrying  a  long  knife  in  a 
belt  around  the  waist  and  sometimes  a  pistol.  He  makes  an 
excellent  soldier ;  the  bravest  champions  of  Greek  indepen- 
dence were  the  Albanians  of  the  islands ;  the  best  soldiers  of 
the  Turkish  empire  are  tc-day  the  Albanians  of  Albania  prop- 
er or  ancient  Epirus.  There  is  not  a  person  of  Greek  blood 
in  this  village ;  and  the  same  statement  is  true  of  the  entire 
rural  population  of  Attica  and  Beotia,  with  a  few  scattered 
exceptions.  The  women  are  not  handsome,  often  sun-burnt 
and  wrinkled,  often  stooped  with  hard  out-door  labor.  In- 
deed one  is  inclined  to  despair  of  ever  seeing  Helen  as  he 
goes  through  these  country-towns.  But  we  shall  continue  our 
quest,  this  air  and  sky  make  amends  for  much  that  is  want- 
ing, the  Greek  mood  never  wanes.  The  image  is  still  hover- 
ing before  us  and  beckons,  we  still  have  faith  that  we  may 
yet  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  reality  somewhere  in  our  travels. 

So  I  rose  to  go ;  two  hours  more  to  Marathon  it  is  said. 
My  hospitable  friend  conducted  me  out  of  the  village — very 
necessary  guidance  through  the  double  line  of  snarling  dogs. 
I  pressed  into  his  hand  a  few  decaria — a  copper  coin  worth 
about  two  cents' — enough  to  pay  him,  yet  not  enough  to 
spoil  him  for  the  next  pedestrian.  He  refused  at  first,  but 
finally  took  them  upon  my  urging  him ;  for  it  should  be  a 
principle  with  the  tourist  afoot  to  pay  the  people  a  reasona- 


80  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

ble  price  for  all  that  he  receives,  under  the  just  supposition 
that  he  is  quite  as  able  to  pay  as  they  are  to  give.  I  do  not 
pretend,  however,  that  my  liberality  was  extravagant,  I  never 
forgot  that  some  of  you  might  be  my  successors.  My  host 
put  me  into  the  road  to  Marathon  and  added  many  directions 
which  I  imperfectly  understood,  and  would  have  forgotten, 
had  I  understood  them.  A  friendly  farewell  and  we  separ- 
ate. Good  luck !  I  am  again  on  my  way  with  lively  hopes 
and  joyous  images — best  of  company  here  in  Greece. 

But  soon  the  road  forked — which  branch  to  take  I  could 
not  tell ;  a  forking  road  is  a  great  perplexity  to  the  traveler 
in  a  country  without  sign-boards.  He  takes  one  way  at  ran- 
dom, then  concludes  that  he  is  wrong,  goes  back  and  takes 
the  other,  only  to  find  at  last  that  he  was  right  the  first  time. 
Such  was  my  fate  now.  I  took  one  of  the  branches,  but  soon 
imagined  that  I  had  made  a  mistake,  and  tried  to  cross  over 
the  intervening  field  to  the  first  branch,  but  this  had  dwindled 
to  a  small  path  which  I  followed  till  it  lost  itself  in  still  small- 
er paths  running  in  every  direction  through  the  mountains. 

Where  am  I  now  ?  Such  is  the  question  which  I  find  my- 
self asking  with  some  bewilderment.  Yonder  is  Parnes  and 
yonder  is  Pentelicus  nearly  at  right  angles  to  each  other; 
with  their  aid  I  can  keep  the  direction ;  so  I  start  straight 
across  the  hills  and  ravines  toward  Marathon.  Not  a  human 
habitation  can  be  seen,  not  a  shepherd,  not  a  flock — nought 
is  there  but  blank  solitude.  A  thick  growth  of  underbrush 
covers  the  ground;  one  has  to  push  through  it  by  main 
strength,  being  caught  sometimes  and  held  fast  by  the  secret 
arms  of  a  wood-nymph  reaching  out  of  her  tree.  Underfoot 
the  crystalline  grain  of  marble  can  be  noticed  in  the  rock 
which  is  nicked ;  minerals  now  and  then  can  be  picked  up. 


From  fames  to  Marathon.  81 

From  some  dense  copse  a  woodcock  will  rise  at  times  with 
sudden  whirr  which  startles  the  solitary  wanderer.  Thus  I 
go  forward,  down  valleys,  across  gulleys,  up  the  steep  hill- 
sides, following  a  path  where  it  can  be  followed,  with  the  be- 
lief that  it  must  lead  somewhither.  Signs  of  a  vacated  camp- 
ing spot  appear,  coal  pits  are  burning  off  yonder,  but  I  see 
nobody.  So  for  three  hours  I  wander  up  and  down  through 
the  brambly  and  uneven  solitudes ;  it  is  not  easy  traveling,  I 
begin  to  grow  weary,  the  sun  too  is  getting  dim  in  afternoon 
decline.  What  if  I  should  have  to  remain  out  all  night  in  the 
mountains  ? 

Still,  courage!  Parnes  and  Pentelicus  with  a  glance  at 
the  map  show  you  that  you  are  right,  going  directly  to  Mar- 
athon; then  forward,  without  delay!  Miltiades  met  and 
overcame  a  much  greater  obstacle  not  far  from  here ;  }rou  too 
must  meet  and  overcome  a  little  one.  Consider  what  lies 
just  before  you — it  is  Marathon !  Thus  I  buoy  myself  up, 
keeping  my  mood  persistently  Greek.  As  I  push  through  a 
clump  of  bushes,  suddenly  I  stand  upon  the  edge  of  an  enor- 
mous chasm ;  the  precipice  descends  hundreds  of  feet  straight 
down ;  cascades  can  be  heard  below  in  the  abyss,  leaping  and 
dashing,  but  can  not  be  seen  from  the  summit.  The  scenery 
is  wild  in  the  extreme ;  colossal  boulders  have  been  broken 
off  from  mountain  tops  and  flung  half  way  down  in  gigantic 
confusion ;  some  rock  battle  it  was  of  the  old  Titans.  Three 
immense  gorges  come  together  into  one  gorge  still  more  im- 
mense— three  throats  of  the  monster  at  the  entrance  to 
Hades,  an  adamantine  triple-necked  Cerberus,  guard  of  Hell. 
After  shuddering  at  the  view  for  a  moment,  this  thought 
breaks  up  through  the  terror :  shall  I  now  have  to  turn  back  ? 
for  there  is  no  getting  down  this  place ;  or  perchance  remain 


82  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

out  all  night  in  the  mountains  ?  I  skirt  along  the  edge  of  the 
abyss  carefully,  fearing  lest  another  precipice  may  cut  me  off 
in  this  new  direction  also. 

But  as  I  turn  around  a  little  thicket  and  emerge  on  the 
other  side,  behold!  The  whole  valley,  green  with  alternate 
patches  of  shrubs  and  grain-fields,  gracefully  narrow  and 
curving,  stretches  out  before  me.  Through  it  a  silvery  rib- 
Ijpn  of  water  is  winding  brightly  along — it  is  the  River  Mara- 
thon. Toward  the  farther  end  of  the  vale  is  a  pleasant  vil- 
lage tying  quietly  between  the  hills  in  sunny  repose — it  is  the 
village  Marathon.  In  the  distance  through  the  opening  be- 
tween two  mountains,  foUowing  with  the  eye  the  course  of 
the  stream  I  can  behold  a  plain  spreading  out  like  a  fan,  and 
stretching  along  the  blue  sparkling  rim  of  the  sea — it  is  the 
plain  of  Marathon.  The  whole  landscape  sweeps  into  the 
vision  at  once  from  the  high  station ;  something  struggles 
within  the  beholder,  wings  can  be  felt  growing  out  of  the 
sides — let  us  fly  down  into  the  vale  without  delay  from  this 
height. 

Accordingly  I  start,  not  with  pinions  however,  for  I  must 
have  walked,  inasmuch  as  I  stepped  on  a  long  slanting  slab 
of  stone,  all  the  while  casting  my  eyes  below  into  the  valley, 
and  not  looking  where  I  should  place  my  feet  which  I  imagin- 
ed I  had  dispensed  with.  I  slipped,  gradually  falling 
my  whole  length  along  that  slab,  not  falling  hard  enough  to 
hurt  me,  but,  as  it  were,  being  laid  down  tenderly  by  some 
God  who  knew  better  what  I  wanted  than  I  did  myself.  For 
I  now  experienced  what  a  luxury  it  was  to  lie  there  after  such 
a  fatiguing  walk  and  to  look  over  that  landscape.  All  anx- 
iety about  having  to  sleep  out  in  the  mountains  has  passed 
away;  just  below  I  notice  a  path  which  leads  to  the  main 


From  Parties  to  Marathon.  83 

road  running  along  the  stream  to  the  village.  Thus  I  lie  on 
the  rough  slab  in  full  enjoyment  of  the  scene — then  I  take 
out  my  note-book  and  write  pretty  much  what  you  have  jus 
heard.  But  what  note-book  can  carry  this  view  across  the 
ocean,  and  show  it  to  friends — or  transfer  the  atmosphere  of 
memory  and  emotion  which  envelops  it!  Still  think  of  me, 
my  hearers,  lying  there  on  a  stone  and  looking  over  Mara- 
thon, while  I  jot  down  a  note  for  you  here.  What  next  is  in 
store  for  us  anyhow? 

But  the  sun  refused  to  stand  in  the  Heavens  and  gaze 
along  with  me,  to  gaze  even  upon  Marathon ;  he  is  sighting 
me  now  with  waning  eye  just  across  yonder  peak,  in  five 
minutes  he  will  drop  behind  it.  Get  up  then,  and  be  off  for 
the  final  stretch,  though  you  be  a  little  stiff  from  much  rac- 
ing to-day.  I  pass  down  the  mountain,  easily,  by  the  path 
to  the  road,  and  come  to  the  pleasant  Marathonian  stream, 
not  large,  but  now  leaping  along  its  white  marble  bed  with 
many  a  joyous  gush  and  babble.  The  road  runs  just  at  the 
side  of  it  so  that  it  keeps  me  company;  in  one  spot  the 
smooth  basin  filled  with  a  dancing  transparent  flow  of  ripples 
is  too  tempting;  I  stoop  down,  wash  hands  and  face,  then 
pull  off  shoes  and  stockings,  and  wade  into  the  cool  pellucid 
waters — I,  the  undignified  man,  right  along  the  public  road. 
But  it  was  delicious  refreshment  to  the  foot-sore  traveler; 
the  cool  stream  healed  the  feverish  members  bruised  by  the 
long  stony  journey — and  I  was  ready  again  for  the  march  and 
the  battle. 

Just  as  I  was  prepared  to  start  once  more,  a  new  appear- 
ance I  notice  coming  down  the  road ;  it  is  the  traveling  mer- 
chant with  his  entire  store  of  goods  laden  on  the  back  of  a 
little  donkey.  His  salute  is  friendly,  his  manner  is  quick 


84  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

and  winning ;  we  go  along  together  toward  the  village  talk- 
ing of  many  things.  He  tells  me  that  he  is  from  Oropus,  a 
town  on  the  Attic  border,  famous  in  antiquitj7,  that  his  name 
•s  Aristides,  that  he  is  going  to  Marathon  and  will  show  me 
a  place  to  stay  during  the  night.  There  is  something  new 
and  peculiar  about  this  man  the  like  of  which  I  have  not  yet 
seen  in  these  rural  portions  of  Greece.  He  walks  with  a 
quick  alert  step,  he  has  a  shrewdness  and  brightness  of  intel- 
lect, a  readiness  and  information  which  are  remarkable  in 
comparison  to  the  ordinary  intellectual  gifts  found  in  the 
country ;  his  features  and  his  physical  bearing,  his  keen  dark 
eye  and  nervous  twitch  distinguish  him  in  the  most  striking 
manner  from  the  stolid  Albanian  peasant.  He  is  a  Greek  of 
pure  blood,  he  tells  me — manifestly  we  have  met  with  a  new 
and  distinctive  type. 

I  enter  the  village  of  Marathon  with  Aristides  who  brings 
me  to  the  chief  wineshop,  where  lodgings  are  to  be  had  as 
well  as  refreshing  beverage.  First  a  thimble  full  of  mastic, 
a  somewhat  strong  alcoholic  drink,  with  my  merchant  who 
then  leaves  me  and  goes  to  his  business.  A  number  of  peo- 
ple are  in  the  wineshop,  they  are  the  Albanian  residents  of 
the  -village ;  all  look  curiously  at  the  new  arrival.  The  mer- 
chant soon  passed  around  the  word  that  I  was  from  Ameri- 
ca— a  fact  which  I  had  imparted  to  him  on  the  way.  But  of 
America  they  had  very  little  notion.  The  strangest  sort  of 
curiosity  peeped  out  of  their  rather  small  eyes ;  the  news 
spread  rapidly  through  the  town  that  a  live  American  had 
arrived;  what  that  was,  they  all  hastened  to  see.  So  they 
continued  to  pour  in  by  twos  and  threes,  till  the  spacious 
wineshop  was  nearly  full.  Not  a  word  they  said,  but  walk- 
ed along  in  front  of  the  table  where  I  sat,  and  stared  at  me 


From  Pomes  to  Marathon.  85 

— with  their  kerchiefed  heads  drawn  down  in  shaggy  capotes, 
dressed  in  tight  breeches  like  close-fitting  drawers,  with  feet 
thrust  into  low  shoes  which  run  out  to  a  point  at  the  toes 
and  curl  over.  Thus  they  move  before  me  in  continuous 
procession ;  when  they  had  taken  a  close  survey  of  me,  they 
would  sit  down  on  a  bench,  roll  a  cigarette  in  paper,  strike 
fire  from  a  flint,  and  begin  to  smoke.  A  taciturn,  curious 
but  not  unfriendly  crowd — I  called  for  recinato. 

Presently  a  man  clad  in  European  garments  appeared 
among  them,  and  in  courteous  manner  addressed  me,  talking 
good  Greek  but  very  bad  French ;  it  was  the  village  school- 
master whom  the  people  familiarly  called  Didaskali.  I  hail- 
ed him  joyfully  as  a  fellow  craftsman  in  a  foreign  land,  and 
lost  no  time  in  announcing  to  him  that  I  too  was  a  school- 
master in  my  country.  Professional  sympathy  at  once  open- 
ed all  the  sluices  of  his  heart,  we  were  friends  on  the  spot. 
He  was  not  an  Albanian,  but  a  Greek  born  in  the  Turkish 
provinces ;  I  do  not  think  he  was  as  bright  as  my  mer- 
chant Aristides,  though  he  was  probably  better  educated.  I 
took  a  stroll  with  him  around  the  town ;  he  sought  to  show 
me  every  possible  kindness,  with  the  single  exception  of  his 
persistency  in  talking  French.  One  neat  little  cottage  I  no- 
ticed ;  it  was  the  residence  of  the  Dikastes  or  village  judge  ; 
but  the  most  of  the  houses  were  low  hovels,  with  glassless 
windows,  often  floorless.  Women  were  shy,  hiding  forehead 
and  chin  in  wrappage  at  the  approach  of  the  stranger,  who 
perhaps  was  too  eager  in  trying  to  peer  into  their  faces — as 
if  in  search  of  some  visage  lost  long  ago  in  this  valley.  Still 
human  nature  is  here,  too,  in  Marathon,  for  I  caught  a  young 
girl  giving  a  sly  peep  through  the  window  after  we  had  pass- 


86  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

ed  which  she  had  pretended  to  close  when  she  saw  the  strang- 
er approaching. 

But  it  is  growing  dark ;  I  have  done  a  pretty  good  day's 
work ;  I  must  put  off  the  rest  of  the  sight-seeing  till  to-mor- 
row. Only  half  a  mile  below  is  the  Marathonian  plain  which 
one  can  see  from  the  village,  but  it  must  now  be  turned  over 
to  darkness.  At  my  request  the  Didaskali  goes  back  with 
me  to  the  wineshop,  when  he  excuses  himself,  promising- 
soon  to  return.  There  I  had  a  supper  which  was  eminently 
satisfactory  after  a  day's  walk:  five  eggs  fried  in  goat's 
butter,  large  quantities  of  black  bread,  and  abundance  of  re- 
cinato  at  one  cent  a  glass — good-sized  glasses  at  that. 

While  I  sat  there  eating,  the  people  began  to  assemble 
again.  The  Papas,  the  village  priest  came  and  listened,  the 
untrowsered  man,  with  dark  habit  falling  down  to  his  heels 
like  a  woman's  dress,  and  with  long  raven  hair  rolled  up  in 
a  knot  on  the  back  of  his  head,  upon  which  knot  sat  his  high 
stiff  ecclesiastical  cap ;  the  Dikastes  or  village  judge  came, 
an  educated  man,  who  had  studied  at  the  University  of 
Athens,  and  who  dressed  in  European  fashion,  possessing  in 
noticeable  contrast  to  the  rest  of  the  Marathonians  the  latest 
style  of  Parisian  hat ;  a  lame  shop-keeper  came,  a  Greek  of 
the  town,  bright,  full  of  mockery,  nattering  me  with  high 
titles  in  order  to  get  me  to  hire  his  mules  for  my  journey,  as 
I  had  good  reason  to  suspect ;  finally  the  schoolmaster  and 
the  traveling  merchant  appeared  again,  both  in  excellent  hu- 
mor and  expecting  a  merry  evening.  There  was  no  doctor 
present,  I  asked  for  him ;  they  told  me  that  there  was  none 
in  the  valley,  though  it  is  scourged  with  malarial  fever  in 
summer ;  one  man  in  particular  complained  of  the  health  of 
the  place.  All  the  representative  citizens  of  Marathon  were 


From  Parnes  to  Marathon.  87 

before  me,  looking  at  me  eating  there  in  the  wineshop  on  a 
wooden  table.  Some  one  asked  me  about  my  native  lan- 
guage. "This  is  the  language  that  I  understand  best," 
said  I,  raising  a  mouthful  of  egg  and  bread  to  my  lips :  "you 
seem  to  understand  it  too."  This  jest,  for  whose  merit  I 
do  not  put  in  any  high  claims,  made  all  the  Albanians  laugh 
and  set  the  whole  wineshop  in  a  festive  mood.  It  is  mani- 
fest that  this  audience  is  not  very  difficult  to  please. 

FinaUy  my  long  repast  was  finished — long  both  on  account 
of  the  work  done  and  on  account  of  the  continued  interrup- 
tions caused  by  question  and  answer.  The  people  still  held 
out — there  they  were  before  me,  more  curious  than  ever,  now 
with  a  laughing  look  on  account  of  that  one  sterile  jest, 
laughing  out  of  the  corner  of  the  eye,  and  with  head  already 
somewhat  drawn  out  of  the  shaggy  capote  from  expectation. 
What  next?  I  was  on  the  soil  of  illustrious  Marathon,  ex- 
pectant gazes  were  centered  upon  me  ;  what  had  I,  as  a  true 
American,  to  do  for  the  honor  of  my  country?  My  duty 
was  clear  from  the  start,  I  must  make  a  speech.  I  would 
have  been  unfaithful  to  my  nationality,  had  I  not  done  so  at 
Marathon.  Accordingly  I  shoved  the  table  aside,  pulled  out 
my  bench,  and  in  the  full  happiness  of  hunger  and  thirst  sat- 
isfied— perhaps  too  a  little  aglow  with  the  golden  recinato — 
I  began  to  address  them  as  follows : 

Andres  Marathonioi — Ye  men  of  Marathon — at  this  point 
I  confess  I  had  to  laugh  to  myself,  looking  into  that  solid 
Albanian  stare  of  fifty  faces,  for  the  echo  of  the  tremendous 
oath  of  Demosthenes  in  which  he  swears  by  the  heroes  of 
Marathon,  rung  through  my  ears  and  made  the  situation  ap- 
pallingly ludicrous.  Still,  in  spite  of  my  laugh,  you  must 
know  that  I  was  in  deep  earnest  and  full  of  my  theme ;  more- 


88  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

over  there  were  at  least  four  persons  before  me  who  could 
understand  both  my  Greek  and  my  allusions.  As  to  my 
Greek,  I  affirm  that  Demosthenes  himself  would  have  under- 
stood it,  had  he  been  there — though  he  might  have  criticised 
the  style  and  pronunciation.  But  I  resumed : 

Ye  men  of  Marathon,  I  never  was  gladder  in  my  life  than 
I  am  to  be  with  you  to-night.  I  crossed  over  the  mountains 
on  foot  from  Stamata ;  every  step  that  I  took  was  lighter 
with  thinking  of  Marathon.  When  from  yonder  summit  I 
first  caught  a  glimpse  of  your  village  and  valley  and  gave  a 
distant  peep  into  the  plain  beyond  to  the  sea,  I  had  to  shed 
tears  of  joy.  Your  name  is  indeed  the  greatest,  the  most  in- 
spiring in  all  history.  In  every  age  it  has  been  the  mighty 
rallying  cry  of  freedom ;  nations  oppressed,  on  hearing  it, 
have  taken  hope  and  risen,  smiting  to  earth  their  tyrants.  It 
has  been  the  symbol  of  courage  to  the  few  and  weak  against 
the  many  and  strong;  the  very  utterance  of  the  name  in- 
spires what  is  highest  and  noblest  in  the  human  breast — 
courage,  devotion,  liberty,  nationality.  Under  a  banner  in- 
scribed with  that  word  Marathon,  our  Western  civilization 
has  heroically  marched  and  fought  its  battle ;  here  was  its 
first  outpost,  here  its  first  and  greatest  triumph — and  the 
shout  of  that  triumph  still  re-echoes  and  will  go  on  re-echo- 
ing forever  through  history.  But  Marathon  is  not  merely 
here ;  it  has  traveled  around  the  world  along  with  man's 
freedom  and  enlightenment.  Among  all  civilized  peoples  the 
name  is  known  and  cherished ;  it  is  familiar  as  a  household 
word,  nay,  it  is  a  household  prayer.  In  the  remote  districts 
of  America  I  have  often  heard  it  uttered — and  uttered  with 
deepest  admiration  and  gratitude.  There,  in  my  land,  thous- 
ands of  miles  from  here,  I  first  learned  the  name  of  Mara- 


From  Parnes  to  Marathon.  89 

thoii  in  a  log  school-house  by  the  side  of  the  primitive  forest ; 
it  fell  from  the  lips  of  a  youth  who  was  passionately  speak- 
ing of  his  country.     It  had  in  its  very  sound,  I  can  still  re- 
collect, some  spell,  some  strange  fascination,  for  it  seemed 
to  call  up  like  an  army  of  spirits  the  great  heroes  of  the  past 
along  with  the  most  intense  feelings  of  the  soul.     There  you 
can  hear  it  among  the  people  in  their  little  debates ;  also  you 
can  hear  it  from  great  orators  in  senate-halls.     Marathon,  I 
repeat,  is  the  mightiest  most  magical  name  in  history,    by 
which  whole  nations  swear  when  they  march  out  in  defence 
of  their  Gods,  their  families  and  their  freedom.     By  it  too 
they  compare  their  present  with  their  past  and  ever  struggle 
upwards  to  fulfil  what  lies  prophetically  in  their  great  exam- 
ple.    Now  I  am  in  the  very  place ;  I  can  hardly  persuade 
myself  that  it  is  not  a  dream,  and  that  you  are  not  shadows 
flitting  here  before  me.     In  that  log  school-house  I  did  not 
even  dare  to  dream  of  this  moment ;  but  it  has  arrived.     I 
have  already  had  a  glimpse  where  the  old  battle-field  reposed 
to-day  in  the  hazy  distance  ;  to-morrow  I  shall  visit  it,  run 
over  it,  spend  the  whole  day  upon  it,  looking  and  thinking ; 
for  I  desire  to  stamp  its  features  and  its  spirit  into  my  very 
brain  that  I  may  carry  Marathon  across  the  ocean  to  my  land 
and  show  it  to  others  who  may  not  be  able  to  come  here  and 
see  it  for  themselves.     Nor  shall  I  refrain  from  confessing 
to  you  a  secret  within  me :  I  can  not  help  thinking  that  I 
have  been  here  before ;  everything  looks  familiar  to  me ;  I 
beheld  yon  summit  long  ago,  the  summit  of  old  Kotroni ;  I 
have  marched  down  the  Marathonian  stream  as  I  marched 
to-day ;  I  seem  to  be  doing  over  again  the  same  things  that 
I  have  done  here  before  ;  I  made  a  speech  on  this  spot  ages 
ago  in  Greek — a  much  better  one,  I  think,  than  I  am  now 


90  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

making.  And  further  let  me  tell  you  what  I  believe — I  be- 
lieve that  I  too  fought  along  at  Marathon,  that  I  was  one  of 
those  ten  thousand  Athenian  soldiers  that  rushed  down  yon- 
der hill-side  and  drave  the  Oriental  man  into  the  sea.  I  can 
now  behold  myself  off  there  charging  down  a  meadow  toward 
a  swamp,  amid  the  rattle  of  arms  and  the  hymn  of  battle, 
with  shield  firmly  grasped  and  with  spear  fiercely  out-thrust, 
on  the  point  of  which,  spitted  through  and  through,  I  can 
feel  a  quivering  Persian." 

At  this  strange  notion  and  still  more  at  the  accompanying 
gesture  made  in  a  charging  attitude,  the  mirthful  Greeks 
could  hold  in  no  longer,  but  burst  suddenly  into  a  loud  and 
prolonged  laugh,  in  which  the  Albanians  joined;  they  all 
laughed,  laughed  inextinguishably,  like  the  blessed  Gods  on 
Olympus,  and  the  whole  wineshop  was  filled  with  wild  merri- 
ment. Whereat  the  speech  was  brought  to  a  close  which 
may  be  modestly  called  a  happy  one :  thus  let  it  be  now. 


TALK  FOURTH. 


Marathon. 

As  soon  as  the  speech  had  come  to  an  end,  I  rose  and 
looked  out  of  the  wineshop,  desiring  to  take  a  short  stroll 
before  going  to  bed,  in  order  to  catch  a  breath  of  fresh  air 
and  to  see  a  Greek  evening  in  the  Marathonian  vale.  Though 
long  after  sunset,  it  appeared  light  out  of  doors  everywhere ; 
that  vague  flicker  from  the  sky  it  was  which  gives  a  mystical 
indefiniteness  to  the  things  of  Nature  and  produces  such  a 
marked  contrast  to  the  clear  plastic  outlines  of  daytime. 
The  schoolmaster  went  along,  and  we  walked  up  the  stream 
of  Marathon,  which  often  gurgled  into  a  momentary  gleam 
over  the  pebbles,  and  then  fell  back  into  darkness.  The 
mountains  on  each  side  of  us  were  changed  into  curious  fan- 
tastic shapes  which  played  in  that  subtle  light ;  caprice  of 
forms  now  ruled  the  beautiful  Greek  world,  as  if  begotten 
in  the  sport  of  a  Northern  fancy ;  Hecate  with  her  rout  of 
witches  and  goblins  had  broken  loose  from  her  dark  caverns 
in  the  earth  and  was  flitting  across  glimmering  patches  of 
twilight  up  and  down  the  hill-sides.  Below  the  peaks  the 


92  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

dells  and  little  seams  of  valleys  running  athwart  one  another 
were  indicated  by  lines  of  darkness  so  that  their  whole  figure 
came  to  resemble  a  many-legged  monster  crawling  down  the 
slant ;  while  above  on  the  summits  was  the  dreamy  play  of 
light  with  the  dance  of  the  fairies.  But  these  shapes  let  us 
shun  in  Greece ;  we  may  allow  them  to  sport  capriciously  be- 
fore us  for  a  few  moments  in  the  evening,  though  in  truth 
they  belong  not  here.  Let  us  then  hasten  back  to  the  wine- 
shop and  await  to-morrow  the  return  of  Phoabus  Apollo,  the 
radiant  Greek  God,  who  will  slay  these  Pythons  anew  with 
his  shining  arrows  and  put  to  flight  all  the  weird  throng,  re- 
vealing again  our  world  in  clear  clean-cut  outlines  bounded 
in  his  soft  sunlight. 

When  we  arrived  there,  we  still  found  the  priest — the 
long-haired,  dark-stoled  Papas,  though  nearly  everybody 
else  had  gone  home.  He  began  to  catechise  me  on  the  sub- 
ject of  religion,  particularly  its  ceremonies ;  of  which  exam- 
ination I,  knowing  my  weakness,  tried  to  keep  shy.  But  he 
broke  out  directly  upon  me  with  this  question :  Were  you 
ever  baptized  ?  Therein  a  new  shortcoming  was  revealed  to 
myself,  for  I  had  to  confess  that  I  actually  did  not  know ;  I 
did  not  recollect  any  such  event  myself,  and  I  had  always 
forgotten  to  ask  my  father  whether  the  rite  had  ever  been 
performed  over  me  when  an  infant.  The  priest  thought  that 
this  was  bad,  very  bad — kakon,  polu  kakon  was  his  repeated 
word  of  disapprobation ;  then  he  asked  me  if  I  never  in- 
tended to  be  baptized.  This  question,  here  at  Marathon, 
drove  me  to  bed ;  I  at  once  called  for  a  light.  But  it  was 
only  one  of  the  frequent  manifestations  that  will  be  observ- 
ed in  modern  Greece,  of  a  tendency  to  discuss  religious  sub- 
tleties. The  ecclesiastical  disputes  of  the  Byzantine  Empire 


Marathon.  93 

—  Homoousian  and  Homoiousian  —  will  often  to-day  be 
brought  up  vividly  to  the  mind  of  the  traveler.  Especially 
the  ceremonies  of  the  Eastern  Church  are  maintained  with 
much  vigor  and  nice  distinction  in  a  very  finespun  and  con- 
sequently very  thin  tissue  of  argumentation. 

After  excusing  myself  from  the  Papas,  who  in  company 
with  me  performs  a  slight  inner  baptism  of  himself  with  a 
glass  of  recinato  as  the  final  ceremony  of  the  day,  I  ask  to 
be  conducted  to  my  quarters,  and  am  led  to  an  adjoining 
building  up  stairs.  The  room  is  without  furniture ;  in  one 
corner  of  it  lies  a  mattress  covered  with  coarse  sheeting  and 
a  good  quilt,  on  the  floor — for  in  Greece  bedsteads  are  not 
much  in  vogue.  They  are  considered  to  be  in  the  way  and 
to  take  up  unnecessary  room ;  so  the  bed-clothes  are  spread 
out  on  the  floor  along  the  hearth  every  evening  and  packed 
away  every  morning.  This  bed  was  considered  a  particular- 
ly good  one,  intended  for  strangers  who  might  visit  Mara- 
thon and  who  had  to  pay  for  it  two  francs  a  night.  Indeed, 
during  a  great  portion  of  the  year  in  this  hot  climate,  the 
bed  is  not  only  unnecessary  but  a  nuisance  in  which  one  can 
only  roll  and  swelter;  hence  the  family  bed  has  no  such 
place  in  the  Greek  as  in  the  Northern  household. 

The  light  which  is  left  me  is  also  worthy  of  a  passing  no- 
tice. It  consists  of  a  cup  two-thirds  filled  with  water ;  on 
the  water  lies  half  an  inch  of  olive  oil ;  on  the  surface  of 
the  oil  is  floating  a  small  piece  of  wood  to  which  a  slender 
wick  is  attached  reaching  into  the  oil ;  the  upper  end  of  this 
wick  is  lighted,  and  painfully  throws  its  shadowy  glimmer 
on  the  walls.  A  truly  pristine  light,  going  back  probably  to 
old  Homer,  thinks  the  traveler,  by  which  the  blind  bard 
could  have  sat  and  hymned  his  lines  to  eager  listeners 


94  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

around  the  evening  board ;  an  extremely  economical  light, 
burning  the  entire  night  without  any  diminution  of  the  oil 
apparently  and  giving  a  proportionate  illumination — it  is  a 
hard  light  to  read  by,  still  harder  to  write  by.  There  is  no 
tallow  in  the  country  for  candles ;  the  little  wax  which  is 
produced  is  used  for  tapers  in  the  churches.  There  is  no 
desk  or  chair  in  the  room ;  one  must  write  on  the  floor  in 
some  way,  if  he  wishes  to  send  a  line  to  the  dear  ones,  or 
take  a  note. 

Accordingly  the  traveler  goes  to  bed,  props  himself  upon 
his  elbow,  opens  his  book  on  the  floor  near  the  light — but 
the  eyes  swim  for  a  moment,  the  head  totters,  back  it  falls 
upon  the  mattress :  that  is  the  end  of  one  day's  adventure ; 
he  will  rapidly  descend  into  Lethe,  where,  though  in  dreams 
he  fight  the  great  battle  over  again  alongside  of  Miltiades  at 
one  moment,  and  the  next  moment  argue  the  question  of 
baptism  with  the  Papas,  he  will  lie  in  sweet  unconscious  re- 
pose, till  the  Sun-god  rising  from  his  bath  in  the  ocean 
stretch  his  long  golden  fingers  through  the  window,  gently 
open  the  eye-lids  and  whisper  to  the  slumberer  who  will  hear 
though  but  half  awake:  "  Rise,  it  is  the  day  of  Marathon." 
Thereupon  the  traveler  leaps  from  his  couch,  for  he  knows 
that  it  is  the  voice  of  a  God  and  he  dares  not  disobey ;  if  he 
have  any  winged  sandals,  he  now  puts  them  on,  for  to-day 
he  will  have  to  make  an  Olympian  flight ;  if  he  have  that 
staff  of  Hermes  with  which  the  Argus-slayer  conducts  de- 
parted souls  out  of  Hades  and  into  it,  he  will  seize  the  same 
and  sally  forth,  for  to-day  he  will  have  to  call  up  from  the 
past  many  mighty  spirits — those  colossal  shades  which  still 
rise  at  Marathon. 

When  I  came  out  of  my  high-sounding  chamber  in  the 


Marathon.  95 

morning,  I  met  my  good  host  with  an  ewer  of  water  which 
he  proceeded  to  pour  upon  my  hands  for  the  purpose  of  ab- 
lation ;  unpoetical  washbasins  do  not  exist,  or  were  refused 
me,  perchance  on  account  of  my  Homeric  habits.  After  a 
breakfast  quite  like  the  supper  on  the  previous  evening,  I 
begin  the  march  for  the  battle  of  Marathon,  having  filled  a 
small  haversack  with  a  piece  of  black  bread  and  some  cheese 
for  luncheon,  and  having  slung  around  my  shoulder  a  can- 
teen of  recinato.  Nor  do  I  forget  my  chief  weapons — two 
books  and  the  maps,  which  I  hold  tightly  under  my  arm. 
Thus  equipped,  I  tread  along,  with  becoming  modesty  I 
trust,  yet  with  no  small  hopes  of  victory. 

But  there  is  no  hurry,  let  the  gait  still  be  leisurely.  As  I 
pass  down  the  road  through  the  village  which  is  spread  out 
on  the  banks  of  the  stream,  I  meet  many  an  acquaintance 
made  the  evening  before  at  the  wineshop ;  each  recognizes  me 
by  a  slight  nod  of  the  head  with  a  pleasant  smile.  All  of 
them  seemed  still  to  be  laughing  at  the  idea  of  my  being  an 
ancient  Hoplite  now  re-visiting  former  scenes  of  activity. 
Such  friendty  greeting  on  every  side  together  with  the  gen- 
ial sunshine  of  the  morning  puts  the  traveler  into  a  happy 
mood,  slightly  transcendental  perhaps.  Whatever  he  now 
does  is  an  adventure  worth  recording  to  future  ages ;  what- 
ever he  now  sees  is  a  divine  revelation. 

Passing  along  to  a  shelving  place  in  the  stream,  he  beholds 
the  washers — one  hundred  women  or  more  at  work  with  fu- 
rious muscle,  pounding,  scouring,  rubbing,  rinsing  the  filth- 
begrimed  fustanellas  of  their  husbands,  brothers,  sons. 
There  is  a  strength,  vigor,  and  I  should  say,  anger  in  their 
motions,  that  they  seem  animated  by  some  feeling  of  revenge 
against  those  dirty  garments,  and  in  my  opinion  with  good 


96  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

reason.  One  Amazonian  arm  is  wielding  a  billet  of  wood, 
quite  of  the  weight  and  somewhat  resembling  the  shape  of 
the  maul  with  which  the  American  woodman  drives  wedges 
into  the  gnarled  oak.  Upon  a  flat  smooth  stone  are  laid  the 
garments,  boiled,  soaped  and  steaming,  when  they  are  bela- 
bored by  that  maul.  None  of  our  modern  machinery  is 
seen,  even  the  washboard  is  very  imperfect  or  does  not  ap- 
pear at  all.  Somehow  in  this  wise  the  ancient  Nausicaas 
must  have  blanched  their  linen  at  the  clear  Marathoniau 
stream;  one  will  unconsciously  search  now  with  eager 
glances  for  the  divine  Phseacian  maid  to  see  whether  she  be 
not  here  still.  At  present  the  washers  are  strewn  along  the 
marble  edge  of  the  water  for  quite  a  distance,  dressed  in 
white,  bare-armed,  mostly  bare-footed  and  bare-legged,  in 
the  liveliest,  fiercest  muscular  motion,  as  if  wrestling  desper- 
ately with  some  fiend.  Look  at  the  struggling,  wriggling, 
smiting  mass  of  mad  women — Maenads  under  some  divine 
enthusiasm — while  the  sides  of  old  Kotroni  Mountain  across 
the  river  re-echoes  with  the  thud  of  their  relentless  billets.  A 
truly  Marathonian  battle  against  filth,  with  this  very  distinct 
utterance :  ' '  For  one  day  at  least  we  are  going  to  be  clean 
in  Marathon." 

But  it  is  impossible  to  look  at  the  washers  all  the  time, 
however  fascinating  the  view ;  indeed  I  had  almost  forgotten 
that  I  am  on  my  way  to  the  field  of  the  great  battle — which 
does  not  speak  well  for  an  ancient  Hoplite.  I  still  pass 
along  the  stream  with  its  white  lining  of  marble  through 
which  flows  the  current  pellucid ; — what !  are  the  eyes  de- 
ceived, or  is  the  water  actually  diminishing  in  the  channel? 
Yes,  not  only  has  it  diminished,  but  now  a  few  steps  farther 
it  has  wholly  vanished,  sunk  away  into  the  earth,  leaving 


Marathon.  97 

merely  a  dry  rocky  bed  for  the  wildest  torrent  of  the  storm. 
Thus  that  crisp  joyous  mountain  stream  which  gave  us  such 
delight  in  its  dance  down  the  hill  through  the  valley  when  we 
looked  at  it  coming  to  Marathon,  now  disappears  with  its  en- 
tire volume  of  water,  to  rise  again  in  the  marshes  beyond  or 
perchance  in  the  sea. 

This  phenomenon  is  not  unusual  in  Greece,  and  like  all 
occurrences  of  Nature  in  this  country,  has  been  stamped  with 
a  spiritual  impress.  Rivers  sink  away,  pass  through  a  chan- 
nel underground,  then  come  again  to  the  surface,  possibly  to 
vanish,  and  to  rise  a  second  time  in  like  manner.  There  is  a 
special  Greek  word  to  designate  such  a  subterranean  passage : 
it  is  called  the  catabothron.  Many  a  stream,  therefore, 
has  its  catabothron,  and  this  fact  always  gave  origin 
to  a  pretty  fable  which  was  elaborated  by  the  poet  of  the 
neighborhood  and  through  him  passed  into  the  mythical 
treasures  of  the  people.  A  beautiful  stream  of  water  ripples 
down  from  the  mountain  and  sinks  away;  it  is  the  fair 
nymph  Marathonia  who  is  ravished  by  Seismos,  the  land- 
heaving  Earthquake  rising  out  of  the  ground,  as  she  is  bath- 
ing in  her  rivulet  and  revealing  her  beauty ;  but  after  long 
struggle  and  flight,  she  is  rescued  by  her  mother,  the  far- 
sounding  Amphetrite  in  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  Thus  each 
little  locality  of  Greece  had  its  fountain  of  poetry,  incessant- 
ly wellirfg  up  into  legend  and  song. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Why  did  the  Greek  seize  upon  Nature 
and  weave  out  of  her  hints  that  wonderful  texture  of  fable  ? 
It  was  just  he  wJio  did  it  with  supreme  beauty,  just  he  and 
nobody  else ;  manifestly  he  wrought  from  some  'deep  need  of 
expressing  himself,  he  had  to  utter  what  was  within  him,  his 
spiritual  life  and  also  the  life  of  his  community.  Nature  lay 


98  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

there  before  him  and  was  profoundly  sympathetic  with  his 
utterance ;  into  her  forms  he  wrought  his  experience,  his  in- 
tellectual stores,  his  history.  For  instance,  a  village  mi- 
grates, a  colony  is  sent  out,  a  religious  rite  is  introduced 
from  abroad,  a  political  institution  is  transplanted — what  is 
it  but  a  spring,  a  stream,  a  water-nymph  disappearing  at  the 
one  place  and  rising  at  the  other?  Before  his  door  is  the 
river,  it  does  the  same  thing  and  becomes  the  expression 
thereof ;  let  him  but  narrate  its  course  and  he  has  the  deep 
poetic  hint  of  his  own  life,  and  it  may  be,  of  the  life  of  his 
whole  nation  and  race. 

Perhaps  the  best  known  of  these  legends  is  that  of  Are- 
thusa,  the  beautiful  nymph  of  Elis,  one  of  Diana's  choir, 
who  beloved  of  the  river-god  Alpheius,  fled  under  the  sea, 
still  pursued  by  the  god,  when  finally  she  rose  in  the  fountain 
Arethusa  in  Sicily.  A  cup  thrown  into  the  river  Alpheius  in 
Greece  would  be  cast  up  at  the  Sicilian  fountain ;  the  blood 
of  sacrifice  which  flowed  into  the  river  during  the  great 
Olympic  festival  would  ensanguine  the  waters  of  fair  Are- 
thusa over  the  sea.  A  poetical  people  we  behold,  always 
grasping  Nature  and  making  her  the  voice  of  their  deed,  the 
expression  of  their  spiritual  revolutions.  There  was  a  great 
colonization  of  Sicily  from  Greece  in  the  7th  and  8th  centu- 
ries B.  C.,  a  transference  thither  of  Greek  customs,  institu- 
tions, language ;  must  there  not  be  some  utterance  of  that 
important  event  from  the  hearts  of  the  people,  taken  direct!}1 
from  that  which  they  see  before  themselves  every  day  ? 

Such  an  utterance,  however,  becomes'a  legend — an  expres- 
sion of  all  similar  occurrences ;  hence  it  is  truly  a  symbol 
and  lasts  forever.  Thus  the  Greek  has  created  the  symbols, 
at  least  the  most  beautiful  symbols  of  the  race,  for  they  are 


Marathon.  99 

employed  to-day  by  Art  and  must  be  eternally  employed. 
This  is  the  supreme  significance  of  Greek  Mythology.  No- 
tice once  more  that  it  comes  from  Nature,  yet  is  not  merely 
natural ;  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  though  it  bears  the  impress 
of  Spirit,  is  it  merely  aUegorical ;  it  is  the  perfect  blending  of 
Nature  and  Spirit,  their  happy  interpenetration ;  thus  a 
brook,  a  thing  of  Nature,  leaps  up  into  the  human  shape, 
while  a  revolution,  a  thing  of  Spirit,  drops  down  into  the  sub- 
terranean course  of  the  brook. 

"With  such  thoughts  I  pass  by  the  Marathonian  cataboth- 
ron,  see  the  waters  swoon  away  into  the  earth ;  then  I  have 
to  ask  myself :  where  will  it  rise  next  ?  Not  in  the  Euripus 
yonder,  I  say;  not  even  across  the  sea  in  Sicily — it  has 
already  gone  much  farther.  The  Marathonian  stream  is  cer- 
tain to  pass  beyond  the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  wind  its  way  un- 
der a  great  ocean,  worm  through  the  cavernous  passages  of 
a  continent,  rise  up  once  more  on  the  banks  of  the  Father  of 
Waters  with  whose  turbid  current  it  will  mingle,  and  add 
thereto  a  little  of  its  quiet  transparent  beauty.  Can  you  not 
see  it  rising  already? 

So  one  saunters  down  that  short  neck  which  attaches  the 
village  to  the  plain,  joyously  attuned  by  the  climate  and  try- 
ing to  throw  himself  back  into  that  spirit  which  created  the 
old  Greek  Mythology,  determined  to  see  here  what  an  an- 
cient Greek  would  see.  Nature  begins  to  be  alive,  she  begins 
to  speak  strange  things  in  his  soul  and  to  reveal  new  shapes 
to  his  vision ;  an  Oread  skips  along  the  mountain  with  him, 
while  the  Naiads  circle  in  a  chorus  round  the  neighboring 
fountain.  Such  company  he  must  find,  if  he  truly  travel  in 
Greece.  Not  as  a  sentimental  play  of  the  fancy,  not  as  a 
pretty  bauble  for  the  amusement  of  a  dreary  hour,  but  as  a 


100  A   Walk  in  Hellas 

vital  source  of  faith  and  action,  as  a  deep  and  abiding  im- 
pulse to  the  greatest  and  most  beautiful  works,  will  the  loyal 
traveler  seek  to  realize  within  himself  these  antique  forms. 

But  that  shape  at  yonder  spring  drawing  water, — what  can 
it  be?  Clearly  not  a  Naiad;  dark  eyes  flashing  out  from 
blooming  features  that  lie  half  hidden  among  her  hair  falling 
down  carelessly  on  both  sides  of  her  forehead,  a  short  dress 
drooping  over  her  luxuriant  frame  in  romantic  tatters  of 
many  colors,  under  which  the  bosom  swells  half  exposed, 
cause  the  white  water-nymphs  to  vanish  into  viewless  air  and 
leave  a  seductive  image  behind,  which  will  long  accompany 
the  traveler  in  spite  of  himself,  rising  at  intervals  and  danc- 
ing through  his  thoughts  even  at  Marathon.  It  is  the  Wal- 
lachian  maiden  who  has  come  down  from  her  mountain  lodge 
for  water,  which  in  two  large  casks  she  puts  on  the  back  of 
a  donkey.  A  wild  beauty,  fascinating  on  account  of  wild- 
ness,  not  devoid  of  a  certain  coy  coquetry ;  she  seems  not 
displeased  to  have  attracted  the  marked  attention  of  that  man 
in  Prankish  garments  who  is  passing  along  the  road,  for  her 
dark  eyes  shoot  out  new  sparkles  from  under  the  falling 
tresses,  tempered  with  subdued  smiles.  She  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  villagers  of  Marathon,  she  is  a  child  of  the  moun- 
tains, she  belongs  to  a  different  world.  Slowly  she  passes 
out  of  sight  with  her  charge  into  the  brushwood ;  looking 
back  at  the  last  step  she  stoops  and  plucks  a  flower ;  then 
she  springs  up  and  vanishes  among  the  leaves. 

It  is  a  slight  disappointment,  perhaps ;  but  look  now,  in 
the  opposite  direction,  and  you  will  behold  in  the  road  going 
toward  the  plain  a  new  and  very  delightful  appearance :  three 
white  robes  are  there  moving  gracefully  along  through  the 
clear  atmosphere  and  seem  to  be  set  in  high  relief  against 


Marathon.  101 

the  hilly  background.  Three  women,  evidently  of  the  wealth- 
ier people  of  the  village,  for  their  garments  are  of  stainless 
purity  and  adjusted  with  unusual  care,  appear  to  be  taking  a 
walk  at  their  leisure  down  the  valley.  Their  dress  is  a  long 
loose  gown  flowing  freely  down  to  the  heels,  all  of  it  shows 
the  spotless  white  except  a  narrow  pink  border.  Over  this  dress 
is  worn  a  woolen  mantilla,  also  white  with  a  small  border.  At 
the  view  there  arises  the  feeling  which  will  often  be  exper- 
ienced in  other  localities  of  Greece  with  even  greater  intensi- 
ty :  the  feeling  of  a  living  plastic  outline  which  suggests  its 
own  copy  in  marble.  No  costume  can  possibly  be  so  beauti- 
ful and  so  distinct  in  this  atmosphere ;  there  they  move 
along,  as  if  statues  should  start  from  their  pedestals  and 
walk  down  from  their  temples  through  the  fields.  Why  the 
white  material  was  taken  by  the  old  artists  for  sculpture,  be- 
comes doubly  manifest  now ;  here  is  the  living  model  in  her 
fair  drapery,  3ronder  across  the  river  is  the  marble,  Peutelic 
marble,  cropping  out  of  the  hills.  Unite  the  twain,  they  be- 
long together,  both  have  still  a  mute  longing  to  be  joined 
once  more  in  happy  marriage.  I  have  not  the  least  doubt 
that  the  ancient  Marathonian  woman  in  the  age  of  the  battle 
paced  through  this  valley  in  a  similar  costume,  producing 
similar  sensations  in  this  bluish  transparent  air. 

But  the  three  shapes  draw  near,  one  will  look  into  their 
faces  as  they  pass,  they  are  Albanian  women,  not  beautiful 
by  any  means,  not  with  features  corresponding  to  their  cos- 
tumes, you  will  say.  Therefore  we  must  add  something 
very  essential  to  bring  back  that  ancient  Greek  woman,  for 
she  had  brought  body  into  the  happiest  harmony  with  dress, 
if  we  may  judge  of  those  types  which  have  come  down  to  us. 
Still  this  is  a  delightful  vision  of  antique  days,  passing  in 


102  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

stately  gait  through  the  clear  sunlit  landscape ; — forms  of 
white  marble  in  contrast  to  the  many-colored  tatters  of  the 
Wallacbian  maiden,  who,  having  no  sympathy  of  dress  with 
the  climate  shows  that  she  does  not  belong  to  Marathon. 

Now  we  have  arrived — if  you  have  succeeded  in  keeping  up 
with  me — at  the  point  where  the  bed  of  the  river  passes  into 
the  plain,  in  full  view  of  which  we  at  present  stand.  It 
sweeps  around  almost  crescent-shaped,  like  the  side  of  a  vast 
amphitheater  cut  into  the  mountains ;  the  line  from  tip  to  tip 
of  the  arc  is  said  to  measure  about  six  miles.  That  line, 
seen  from  the  spot  where  we  now  are,  has  a  beautiful  blue 
border  of  sparkling  water — the  Euripus,  which  separates  the 
mainland  from  the  island  Euboia.  There  is  upon  the  plain 
but  one  tree  worthy  of  the  name — a  conifer  which  rises 
strange  and  solitary  about  in  the  center  of  it,  and  looks  like 
a  man,  with  muffled  head  in  soldier's  cloak  standing  guard, 
still  waiting  for  some  enemy  to  come  out  of  the  East.  The 
plain  is  at  present  largely  cultivated,  vineyards  and  fields  of 
grain  are  scattered  through  it,  but  the  ancient  olives  are 
wanting.  At  the  northern  horn  of  the  crescent  is  a  large 
morass  running  quite  parallel  to  the  sea ;  a  smaller  one  is  at 
the  southern  horn.  Into  the  plain  two  villages  debouch,  both 
having  roads  from  Athens.  There  is  a  beautiful  shore  grad- 
ually shelving  off  into  deep  water  with  a  gravel  bottom ;  here 
the  traveler  will  sit  long  and  look  at  the  waves  breaking  one 
after  another  upon  the  beach.  This  coast,  however,  is  but  a 
narrow  strip  for  several  miles ;  just  behind  it  lies  amid  the 
grass  the  deceptive  marsh,  not  visible  at  any  considerable 
distance.  This  morass  and  its  conformation  will  explain  the 
great  miracle  of  the  battle :  namely,  its  decisiveness  notwith- 
standing the  enormous  disparity  in  the  numbers  of  the  two 


Marathon.  103 

contending  armies.  For  the  morass  was  the  treacherous  en- 
emy lurking  in  ambuscade  at  the  rear  and  under  the  very  feet 
of  the  Persians. 

In  regard  to  the  battle  of  Marathon  we  have  only  one 
trustworthy  account — this  is  given  by  Herodotus,  the  Father 
of  History.  It  is  short  and  omits  much  that  we  would  like 
to  know,  indeed  must  know  in  order  to  comprehend  the  bat- 
tle. Still,  a  view  of  the  ground  will  suggest  the  general 
plan,  with  the  help  of  the  old  historian's  hints  and  of  one 
contemporary  fact  handed  down  by  the  traveler  Pausanias. 
The  battle  was  a  fierce  attack  in  front,  aided  by  the  ene- 
my in  the  rear — the  morass,  which  had  a  double  power.  It, 
on  the  one  hand,  prevented  the  foe  from  getting  assistance, 
which  could  only  come  from  the  ships  by  a  long  detour  round 
the  narrow  strip  of  coast  easily  blocked  by  a  few  soldiers. 
On  the  other  hand,  broken  or  even  unbroken  lines  being 
forced  into  the  swampy  ground  would  become  hopelessly  dis- 
ordered, and  would  have  enough  to  do  fighting  the  enemy 
under  their  feet. 

Imagine  now  this  line  of  coast  with  the  vessels  drawn  up 
stern  wards  along  the  shelving  bank ;  then  comes  the  narrow 
strip  of  shore  on  which  a  portion  of  the  Persian  army  lies  en- 
camped ;  then  follows  the  marshy  tract,  then  the  plain  upon 
which  another  portion  of  the  Persion  army  is  drawn  up ;  still 
further  and  beyond  the  plain  is  the  slope  of  the  mountain 
where  with  good  vision  you  can  see  the  Athenians  arrayed  in 
order  of  battle.  At  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  two  villages, 
doubtless  near  the  modern  hamlet  of  Vrana  they  have  taken 
position,  since  they  could  easily  pass  round  the  road  and  pro- 
tect the  other  valley,  if  a  movement  should  be  made  in  that 
direction  by  the  enemy.  Single-handed  of  all  the  states  of 


104  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

Greece  they  stand  here ;  they  had  sent  for  aid  to  the  Spar- 
tans who  refused  to  come  on  account  of  a  religious  festival. 
Still  the  suspicion  lives  and  will  forever  live  through  history 
that  this  was  a  mere  pretense,  that  the  Spartans  would  glad- 
ly have  seen  their  rival  destroyed,  though  at  the  peril  of 
Greek  freedom. 

But  who  are  these  men  filing  silently  through  the  brush- 
wood of  Mount  Kotroni,  in  leather  helmets  and  rude  kilts, 
hurrying  forward  to  the  aid  of  the  Athenians  ?  They  are  the 
Plataeans,  a  small  community  of  Beotia,  in  all  Greece  the 
only  town  outside  of  Attica  that  has  the  courage  and  the  in- 
clination to  face  the  Persian  foe.  One  thousand  men  are  here 
from  that  small  place — a  quiet  rural  village  lying  on  the  slopes 
of  Kithaeron ;  the  whole  male  population,  one  is  forced  to 
think,  including  every  boy  and  old  man  capable  of  bearing 
arms  is  in  that  band,  for  the  entire  community  could  hardly 
number  more  than  three  or  four  thousand  souls.  Yet  here  they 
are  to  the  last  man ;  one  almost  imagines  that  some  of  the 
women  must  be  among  them  in  disguise — as  to-day  the 
Greek  women  of  Parnassus  often  handle  the  gun  with  skill, 
and  hare  been  known  to  fight  desperately  in  the  ranks  along 
side  of  their  fathers  and  brothers.  But  think  of  what  was 
involved  in  that  heroic  deed;  the  rude  villagers  assemble 
when  the  messenger  comes  with  the  fearful  news  that  the 
Persian  had  landed  just  across  at  Marathon ;  in  the  market- 
place they  deliberate,  having  hurried  from  their  labor  in  the 
fields,  in  coarse  rustic  garb  with  bare  feet  slipped  into  low 
sandals ;  uncouth  indeed  they  seem,  but  if  there  ever  were 
men  on  the  face  of  this  earth,  they  were  in  Plataea  at  that 
hour.  No  faint-hearted  words  were  there,  we  have  the  right 
to  assume — no  half-hearted  support,  no  hesitation ;  every 


Marathon.  105 

man  takes  his  place  in  the  files,  the  command  to  march  is 
given  and  they  all  are  off.  Nor  can  we  forget  the  anxiety 
left  behind  in  the  village ;  the  Greek  wife  with  child  on  her 
arm  peers  out  of  the  door,  taking  a  last  look  at  that  receding 
column  winding  up  Kithaeron  and  disappearing  over  its  sum- 
mit ;  there  is  not  a  husband,  not  a  grown-up  son  remaining 
in  Plataea.  What  motive,  do  you  ask?  I  believe  that 
these  rude  Greek  rustics  were  animated  by  a  profound  in- 
stinct which  may  be  called  not  only  national  but  world-his- 
torical— the  instinct  of  hostility  to  the  Orient  and  its  princi- 
ple in  favor  of  political  autonomy  and  individual  freedom. 
Also  another  ground  of  their  conduct  was  gratitude  toward 
the  Athenians  who  had  saved  them  from  the  tyranny  of 
Thebes,  their  overbearing  neighbor;  now  their  benefactors 
are  in  the  sorest  need,  patriotism  and  friendship  alike  com- 
mand, there  can  be  no  hesitation.  So  those  thousand  men 
on  a  September  day  wind  through  the  pines  and  arbutes  of 
Kotroni  with  determined  tread,  are  received  with  great  joy 
by  the  Athenians  and  at  once  take  their  position  on  the  left 
wing  ready  for  the  onset.  Let  any  villag  e  in  the  world's  his- 
tory match  the  deed !  Well  may  the  Athenia  ns  after  that 
day  join  the  Plataeans  with  themselves  in  public  prayers  to 
the  Gods,  in  whose  defence  both  have  marched  out. 

Scarcely  have  these  allies  arrived,  we  may  suppose,  when 
the  moment  of  battle  is  at  hand.  Doubtless  it  was  the  most 
favorable  moment,  and  as  such  eagerly  seized  by  Miltiades ; 
why  it  was  so  favorable  no  one  at  this  late  day  can  know. 
Perhaps  the  much-feared  Persian  cavalry  were  absent  on  a 
foraging  expedition,  perhaps  the  enemy  were  negligent  or 
were  embarking,  or,  as  Herodotus  says,  because  it  was  Mil- 
tiades' day  of  command  ; — alas,  who  can  tell?  At  any  rate 


106  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

the  order  to  charge  is  given,  down  the  declivity  the  Greeks 
rush,  over  the  plain  for  a  mile.  The  deep  files  on  the  wings 
of  their  army  bear  everything  before  them ;  but  the  center  is 
defeated  for  a  time  and  driven  back,  for  it  had  apparently 
been  weakened  to  strengthen  the  wings.  Such  is  the  first 
fierce  attack. 

Now  comes  the  second  stage  of  the  struggle,  the  battle  at 
the  marshes.  The  front  of  the  enemy,  pressed  by  the  Greeks 
and  consolidated  into  a  mass  of  panic-stricken  fugitives  bore 
the  rear  backwards ;  thus  the  whole  hostile  army  pushed 
itself  into  the  swamp.  Whoever  has  seen  a  regiment  of  in- 
fantry in  a  morass,  reeling,  struggling  with  broken  lines, 
sinking  under  their  equipments,  soldiers  extricating  one  foot 
only  to  sink  deeper  with  the  other,  cursing  theirs  stars  and 
damning  the  war,  that  is,  a  complete  loss  of  all  discipline 
and  a  sort  of  despair  on  account  of  the  new  victorious  enemy 
underfoot — such  a  person  can  imagine  the  condition  of  a 
large  part  of  the  Persian  army  after  that  attack.  The  Greek 
lines  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  marsh  and  smote  the  struggling 
disordered  mass  with  little  or  no  loss  to  themselves.  They 
also  prevented  succor  from  coming  round  the  narrow  tongue 
of  coast  till  the  battle  at  the  morass  was  over,  wholly  victo- 
rious for  the  Greeks. 

The  narrative  of  Herodotus  omits  entirely  this  second 
stage  of  the  conflict,  and  modern  historians  have  slurred  it 
over  with  little  or  no  separate  attention.  Thus,  however,  the 
whole  battle  is  an  unaccountable  mystery.  Fortunately  this 
struggle  at  the  morass  and  its  result  are  vouched  for  by  an 
authority  at  once  original  and  contemporaneous — an  author- 
ity even  better  than  Herodotus  who  was  a  foreigner  from 
Asia  Minor.  It  was  the  picture  in  the  Poekile  at  Athens 


Marathon .  107 

painted  not  long  after  the  battle.  Of  the  details  of  that  pic- 
ture we  have  several  important  hints  from  ancient  authors. 
Says  Pausanias,  evidently  speaking  of  its  leading  motive,  it 
shows  "  the  barbarians  fleeing  and  pushing  one  another  into 
the  swamp. ' '  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  was  the  salient 
and  decisive  fact  of  the  battle :  the  barbarians  fled  and  push- 
ed one  another  into  the  swamp.  By  the  fierce  onset  of  the 
Greeks  the  front  lines  of  the  enemy  were  driven  upon  the 
rear,  and  the  whole  multitude  was  carried  by  its  own  weight 
into  the  treacherous  ground,  numbers  only  increasing  the 
momentum  and  the  confusion.  Such  was  the  conception  of 
the  artist  painting  the  battle  before  the  eyes  of  the  very  men 
who  had  participated  in  it ;  such,  therefore,  we  must  take  to 
be  the  contemporary  Athenian  conception.  The  picture  may 
well  be  considered  to  be  the  oldest  historical  document  we 
have  concerning  the  fight,  and  as  even  better  evidence  than 
the  foreign  historian.  The  ground,  moreover,  as  we  look  at 
it  to-day,  tells  the  same  story.  A  skillful  military  command- 
er of  the  present  time,  other  things  being  equal,  would  make 
the  same  plan  of  attack.  Thus,  too,  the  great  miracle  of  the 
battle — the  defeat  of  so  many  by  so  few  and  the  small  loss 
of  the  victors — is  reasonably  cleared  up. 

The  third  stage  of  the  conflict  was  the  battle  at  the  ships, 
while  the  enemy  were  embarking.  This,  to  be  successful, 
had  to  take  place,  partly  upon  the  narrow  strip  of  shore  to 
which  the  Greeks  must  penetrate  at  a  disadvantage.  In 
their  zeal  they  rushed  into  the  water  down  the  shelving  peb- 
bly bottom  in  order  to  seize  the  fleet ;  still  the  faithful  trav- 
eler visiting  the  scene  will,  after  their  example,  wade  far  out 
into  the  sea.  Seven  vessels  were  taken  out  of  six  hundred, 
the  enemy  making  good  their  embarkation.  Many  Greeks 


10H  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

here  suffered  the  fate  of  brave  Kynageirus,  brother  of  the 
poet  JEschylus,  who  seizing  hold  of  a  vessel  had  his  arms 
chopped  off  by  a  Persian  battle-ax.  In  general,  the  Greeks 
were  repulsed  at  the  battle  of  the  ships ;  but  this  third  stage, 
since  the  enemy  were  leaving,  is  the  least  important  of  the 
whole  conflict. 

Not  a  word  does  Herodotus  s&y  about  the  numbers  engag- 
ed on  either  side — a.  strange,  unaccountable  omission.  Yet 
he  must  have  conversed  with  men  who  fought  at  the  battle, 
with  the  leaders  possibly,  and  he  gives  with  the  greatest  care 
the  loss  on  both  sides — 6400  Persians,  192  Athenians.  The 
omission  leads  to  the  conjecture  that  he  could  not  find  out 
the  true  figures ;  yet  why  not  at  Athens,  where  they  must 
have  been  known  ?  It  is  a  puzzle ;  let  each  one  solve  it  by 
his  own  conjecture  which  is  likely  to  be  as  good  as  anybody 
else's. 

Ancient  writers  much  later  than  the  battle  give  to  the  Per- 
sians from  210,000  to  600,000  men;  to  the  Athenians  and 
Plataeans  10,000  men.  Modern  writers  have  sought  through 
various  sources  to  lessen  this  immense  disparity,  by  increas- 
ing the  Athenian  and  diminishing  the  Persian  numbers.  In- 
deed Marathon  became  the  topic  of  the  wildest  exaggeration 
for  the  Greek  orators  and  rhetoricians — 300,000  were  said  to 
have  been  slain  by  less  than  10,000 ;  Kynageirus  already 
mentioned  is  declared  to  have  had  first  the  right  hand  cut 
off,  then  the  left  hand,  then  to  have  seized  the  vessel  with  his 
teeth  like  a  wild  animal ;  Callimachus,  a  brave  general  who 
was  slain,  is  represented  to  have  been  pierced  by  so  many 
weapons  that  he  was  held  up  by  their  shafts.  It  was  the 
great  common-place  of  Athenian  oratoiy,  thence  it  has  pass- 
ed to  be  the  world's  common-place.  Justly,  in  my  opinion; 


Marathon.  109 

for  it  is  one  of  the  supreme  world-events,  and  not  merely  a 
local  and  even  national  affair ;  thus  the  world  will  talk  of  its 
own  deeds.  Do  not  imagine  with  the  shallow-brained  de- 
tractor that  rhetoric  has  made  Marathon ;  no,  Marathon 
rather  has  made  rhetoric,  among  other  greater  things. 

Far  more  interesting  than  these  rhetorical  exaggerations  of 
a  later  time  are  the  contemporary  accounts  which  come  from 
the  people  and  show  their  faith — the  legends  of  supernatural 
appearances  which  took  part  in  the  fight.  For  there  was 
aught  divine,  the  people  must  believe,  at  work  visibly  upon 
the  battle-field  that  day.  Epizelus,  a  soldier  in  the  ranks 
was  stricken  blind  and  remained  so  during  life,  at  the  vision 
of  a  gigantic  warrior  with  a  huge  beard,  who  passed  near  him 
and  smote  the  enemy.  Theseus,  the  special  Athenian  hero, 
Hercules  the  universal  Greek  hero  were  there  and  seen  of 
men ;  no  doubt  of  it,  the  heroes  all  did  tight  along,  with  very 
considerable  effect  too.  Nor  were  the  Gods  absent:  the 
God  Pan,  regardless  of  slighted  divinity,  met  the  courier 
Phidippides  on  the  way  to  Sparta  for  aid  and  promised  his 
divine  help  if  the  Athenians  would  neglect  him  no  longer. 
Finally  Athena  herself,  the  protecting  Goddess  of  the  city, 
in  helm  and  spear  strode  there  through  the  ranks,  shaking 
her  dreadful  egis,  visible  to  many,  nay,  to  all  Athenian  eyes. 

Even  a  new  hero  appears,  unheard  of  before ;  in  rough 
rustic  garb,  armed  with  a  ploughshare  he  smote  the  Oriental 
foe  who  had  invaded  his  soil.  After  the  battle  he  vanishes 
— who  was  he  ?  On  consulting  an  oracle  the  Athenians  were 
merely  told  to  pay  honors  to  the  Hero  Echetlus.  On  the 
whole  the  most  interesting  and  characteristic  of  all  these  ap- 
pearances— the  rustic  smiter  he  is,  who  reveals  the  stout  rude 
work  put  in  by  the  Attic  peasant  on  that  famous  day.  In- 


1 10  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

deed  all  who  fell  were  buried  on  the  sacred  ground  of  the 
battle  and  were  worshipped  as  heroes  with  annual  rites. 
Still  in  the  time  of  the  traveler  Pausanias,  about  150  years 
after  Christ,  the  air  was  filled  at  night  with  the  blare  of 
trumpets,  the  neighing  of  steeds  and  the  clangor  of  battle. 
Says  he :  "  It  is  dangerous  to  go  to  the  spot  for  the  express 
purpose  of  seeing  what  is  going  on,  but  if  a  man  finds  him- 
self there  by  accident  without  having  heard  about  the  matter, 
the  Gods  will  not  be  angry."  Greece  was  at  the  period  of 
Pausanias  extinct  in  Roman  servitude,  yet  the  clash  of  that 
battle  could  be  heard,  loud,  angry,  even  dangerous,  over  six 
hundred  years  after  the  event.  Still  the  modern  peasant 
hears  the  din  of  combat  in  the  air  sometimes  ;  I  asked  him, 
he  was  a  little  shy  of  the  matter ;  the  noise,  however,  has  be- 
come to  him  comparatively  feeble,  still  there  is  a  noise.  But 
long  will  it  be,  one  may  well  think,  before  that  noise  wholly 
subsides. 

So  the  Heroes  and  Gods  fought  along  with  the  Athenians 
at  Marathon,  visibly,  almighty  and  in  wrath.  Thus  it  has 
been  delivered  to  us  on  good  authority ;  thus  I,  for  one,  am 
going  to  believe,  for  the  event  shows  it ;  far  otherwise  had 
been  the  story,  if  the  Gods  had  not  fought  along  on  that  day. 
There  would  have  been  no  Marathonian  victory,  no  Athens, 
no  Greek  literature,  for  us  at  least.  But  now  Theseus,  the 
deserving  Hero,  will  have  a  new  temple,  beautiful,  enduring, 
at  this  moment  nearly  perfect,  after  almost  twenty-four  cen- 
turies. Athena  also  will  have  a  new  temple,  larger  and  more 
beautiful  than  any  heretofore,  still  the  unattained  type  of  all 
temples ;  it  shall  be  called,  in  honor  of  the  virgin  Goddess, 
the  Parthenon.  Attic  song  will  now  burst  forth,  Attic  art 
too,  celebrating  just  this  Marathon  victory ;  that  long  line  of 


Marathon.  Ill 

• 

poets,  orators,  philosophers,  historians  will  now  appear — all 
because  the  Gods  fought  along  at  Marathon. 

For  can  we  not  see  the  Divine  at  once  springing  into  artis- 
tic utterance  at  Athens  ?  There  in  the  Poekile  or  Painted 
Porch  was  a  large  picture  representing  this  battle ;  promi- 
nent were  the  forms  of  Miltiades  who  commanded,  of  Calli- 
machus  whose  slain  body  was  held  upright  by  the  piercing 
spears,  of  Kynageirus  seizing  the  vessel,  of  Epizelus  struck 
blind  by  the  spectral  warrior.  But  among  these  mortal  he- 
roes the  shapes  of  Hercules,  Theseus,  Echetlus  stood  out  in 
that  picture ;  above  all,  however,  the  supreme  figure  was 
painted  there,  the  warlike  virgin  Athena,  clad  in  divine 
armor,  moving  in  the  midst  of  the  combat  with  death- 
dealing  glances  from  her  awful-gleaming  eye.  Look  up  yon- 
der at  the  Acropolis ;  there  too  she  stands,  or  will  soon  be 
made  to  stand — Athena  Promachos,  Athena  the  Forefighter, 
in  full  panoply  towering  toward  the  skies,  looking  off  on  the 
sea  in  proud  defiance  at  the  East.  Manifestly  the  Gods 
were  fighting  for  their  people ;  let  it  be  imaged  before  all 
eyes :  then  we  have  Art,  which  is  the  Divine  appearing  in 
our  material  world  to  the  senses.  Many  a  regret  rises  that 
one  can  not  see  how  those  ancient  Artists  brought  the  God- 
dess down  from  Olympus  and  revealed  her  to  men  after  be- 
holding her  at  Marathon. 

The  most  prominent  object  on  the  plain  of  Marathon  is  an 
artificial  mound,  perhaps  thirty  feet  high  at  present ;  upon  it 
is  growing  some  low  brushwood.  It  is  generally  considered 
to  be  the  tomb  of  the  192  Athenians  who  were  buried  on  the 
battle-field  and  had  there  a  monument  on  which  their  tribe 
and  their  names  were  written.  To  the  summit  of  this  mound 
the  traveler  will  ascend  and  sit  down;  he  will  thank  the 


112  A  Walk  in  ffella*.. 

brambles  growing  upon  it  that  they  have  preserved  it  so  well 
in  their  rude  embrace  from  the  leveling  rains.  He  may  reas 
onably  feel  that  he  is  upon  the  rampart  which  separates  the 
East  from  the  West.  Yonder  just  across  this  narrow  strait 
are  the  mountains  of  Euboea,  snow-capped  and  loftily  proud, 
yet  they  stooped  their  heads  to  the  Persian  conqueror.  All 
the  islands  of  the  sea  submitted,  Asia  Minor  submitted. 
But  here  upon  this  shore  defiantty  facing  the  East,  was  the 
first  successful  resistance  to  the  Oriental  principle ;  its  sup- 
porters could  hardly  do  more  than  make  a  landing  upon 
these  banks,  when  down  from  the  mountains  swept  fire  and 
whirlwind,  burning  them  up,  driving  them  into  the  sea. 
Here  then  our  West  begins  or  began  in  Space  and  Time,  we 
might  say  upon  this  very  mound ;  that  semi-circular  sweep 
of  hills  yonder  forms  the  adamantine  wall  which  shut  out 
Orientalism.  Regard  their  shape  once  more ;  they  seem 
to  open,  like  a  huge  pair  of  forceps,  only  in  order  to  close 
again  and  press  to  death. 

Strange  is  the  lot  of  the  men  buried  here,  the  unconscious 
instruments  of  a  world's  destiny,  nameless  except  two  or 
three  possibly.  Yet  they  had  some  mighty  force  in  them 
and  back  of  them ;  one  is  quite  inclined  to  think  that  they 
must  have  remotely  felt  in  some  dim  far-off  presentiment 
what  lay  in  their  deed  for  the  future,  and  that  such  feeling 
nerved  their  arms  to  a  hundred-fold  intensity.  Here  upon 
the  mound  this  question  comes  home  to  us  before  all  others : 
What  is  man  but  that  which  he  is  ready  to  die  for  ?  Such  is 
his  earthly  contradiction:  if  he  have  that  for  which  he  is 
willing  to  give  his  life,  then  he  has  a  most  vital,  perdurable 
energy ;  but  if  he  have  nought  for  which  he  would  die,  then 
he  is  already  dead,  buried  ignobly  in  a  tomb  of  flesh. 


Marathon.  113 

But  what  is  this  Greek  principle  which  Marathon  has  pre- 
served for  us  against  the  Orient?  It  is  not  easy  to  be  form- 
ulated in  words,  to  anybody's  complete  satisfaction.  •  Politi- 
cally, it  is  freedom ;  in  Ait,  it  is  Beauty ;  in  Mind,  it  is  Phil- 
osophy ;  and  so  on,  through  many  other  abstract  predicables. 
Perhaps  we  may  say  that  the  fundamental  idea  of  Greece  is 
the  self-development  of  the  individual  in  all  its  phases — the 
individual  state,  the  individual  city  or  town,  the  individual 
man.  Henceforth  the  task  is  to  unfold  the  germ  which  lies 
within,  removed  from  external  trammels — to  give  to  the  indi- 
vidual a  free,  full,  harmonious  development.  Thus  will  be 
produced  the  great  types  of  states,  of  men,  of  events ;  still 
further,  these  types  will  then  be  reproduced  by  the  artist  in 
poetry,  in  marble,  in  history  and  in  many  other  forms.  This 
second  production  or  reproduction  is,  indeed,  of  all  Grecian 
things,  the  most  memorable. 

The  battle  of  Marathon  is  itself  a  type  and  has  always  been 
considered  by  the  world  as  a  supreme  type  of  its  kind,  repre- 
senting a  phase  of  the  spiritual.  Athens  from  this  moment 
has  the  spirit  of  which  the  Marathonian  deed  is  only  an  ut- 
terance. Soon  that  spirit  will  break  forth  in  all  directions, 
producing  new  eternal  types,  just  as  Marathon  is  such  a  type 
in  its  way.  Athenian  plastic  Art,  Poetry,  Philosophy  are 
manifestations  of  this  same  spirit  and  show  in  a  still  higher 
degree  than  the  battle,  the  victory  over  Orientalism.  The 
second  Persian  invasion  came,  but  it  was  only  a  repetition  of 
the  first  one ;  it  too  was  defeated  at  Marathon,  which  was 
the  primitive  Great  Deed,  the  standing  image  to  Greece  of 
herself  and  of  all  her  possibilities  Hence  the  use  of  it  so 
often  by  her  writers  and  speakers,  as  well  as  by  those  of  the 
entire  Western  world. 


114  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

With  Marathon,  too,  History  properly  begins ;  that  is,  the 
stream  of  History.  Now  it  becomes  a  definite,  demonstrable, 
unbroken  current  sweeping  down  to  our  own  times.  Before 
Marathon,  indeed,  there  is  History,  and  much  History,  but 
it  is  in  flashes,  short  or  long,  then  going  out  in  darkness. 
The  history  of  Greece  itself  before  Marathon  is  merely  an 
agglomeration  of  events  quite  disconnected.  The  head  wa- 
ters take  their  start  at  Marathon,  Oriental  bubblings  there 
are  in  abundance,  but  no  stream.  In  fact  it  could  not  be 
otherwise,  such  is  just  the  character  of  the  Orient :  to  be  un- 
able to  create  this  historical  continuity.  But  the  West  has 
it,  and  it  was  won  at  Marathon,  marking  the  greatest  of  all 
transitions  both  in  the  form  and  in  the  substance  of  History. 
Moreover  the  historic  consciousness  now  arises  ;  History  for 
the  first  time  is  able  to  record  itself  in  an  adequate  manner. 
If  you  now  scan  him  closely,  you  will  find  that  man  has  come 
to  the  insight  that  he  has  done  in  these  days  something  wor- 
thy of  being  remembered  forever.  But  where  is  the  scribe 
to  set  it  down?  Behold,  here  he  comes,  old  Herodotus,  the 
Father  of  History,  with  the  first  truly  historical  book  in 
which  he  has  written  together  with  the  rest  of  the  Persian 
War  the  noble  record  of  just  this  great  Marathonian  deed. 
Thus  with  the  worthy  action  appears  the  man  worthy  of 
transmitting  its  glory. 

Still  the  traveler  remains  upon  the  top  of  the  mound,  ask- 
ing himself:  Why  is  Marathon  so  famous?  Other  battles 
have  equalled  it  in  disparity  of  numbers  and  in  completeness 
of  victory,  while  they  have  had  the  same  principle  of  freedom 
and  nationality  at  stake.  The  battle  of  Morgarten  with  its 
1600  Swiss  against  20,000  Austrians  is  often  cited  and  is 
sometimes  called  the  Swiss  Marathon.  But  Morgarten  to  the 


Marathon.  115 

world  is  an  obscure  skirmish,  it  is  not  one  of  the  heroic 
deeds  which  determined  a  civilization ;  it  is  not  one  of  the 
hallowed  symbols  of  the  race.  This  then  must  be  the  cause : 
Greece  has  created  to  a  large  extent  what  we  may  call  the 
symbols  of  our  Western  world — the  typical  deeds,  the  typi- 
cal men,  the  typical  forms  which  are  still  the  ideals  by  which 
we  mould  our  works  and  to  which  we  seek,  partially  at  least, 
to  adjust  our  lives. 

Marathon  therefore  stands  for  a  thousand  battles ;  all 
other  struggles  for  freedom,  of  which  our  Occident  has 
been  full,  are  merely  echoes,  repetitions,  imitations  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  of  that  great  primitive  action.  And  Greece  is 
just  the  nation  in  History  which  was  gifted  with  the  power 
of  making  all  that  she  did  a  type  of  its  kind.  The  idea  of 
the  West  she  first  had,  in  its  instinctive  form,  in  its  primal 
enchanting  bloom ;  most  happily  she  embodied  that  idea  in 
her  actions,  making  them  into  eternal  things  of  beauty. 

That  is,  all  the  deeds  of  Greece  are  works  of  Art.  In  this 
sense  the  battle  of  Marathon  may  be  called  a  work  of  Art. 
Grandeur  of  idea  with  perfect  realization  is  the  definition  of 
such  a  work,  and  is  that  quality  which  elevates  the  person 
who  can  rightly  contemplate  it  into  true  insight.  It  fills  the 
soul  of  the  beholder  with  views  of  the  new  future  world  and 
makes  him  for  a  time  the  sharer  of  its  fruits.  Marathon  is 
only  that  single  wonderful  event,  yet  it  is  symbolical  of  all 
that  are  to  come  after  it — you  may  say,  embraces  them  all; 
it  tells  the  race  for  the  first  time  what  the  race  can  do,  giving 
us  a  new  hope  and  a  new  vision.  So  indeed  does  every 
great  work  of  Art  and  every  great  action;  but  this  is  the 
grand  original,  it  is  the  prophecy  of  the  future  standing 
there  at  the  opening  of  History,  telling  us  what  we  too  may 


116  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

become,  imparting  to  us  at  this  distance  of  time  a  fresh  as- 
piration. 

One  step  further  let  us  push  this  thought  till  it  mirror  itself 
clearly  and  in  completeness.  The  Athenians  were  not  only 
doers  of  beautiful  deeds,  they  were  also  the  makers  of  beau- 
tiful things  to  represent  the  same — they  were  artists.  Not 
only  a  practical,  but  an  equal  theoretic  greatness  was  theirs ; 
in  no  people  that  has  hitherto  appeared  were  the  two  primal 
elements  of  Human  Spirit,  Will  and  Intelligence,  blended  in 
such  happy  harmony ;  here,  as  in  all  their  other  gifts  there 
was  no  overbalancing,  but  a  symmetry  which  becomes  musi- 
cal. .They  first  made  the  deed  the  type  of  all  deeds,  made  it 
a  Marathon;  then  they  embodied  it  in  an  actual  work  of 
Art.  They  were  not  merely  able  to  enact  the  great  thought, 
but  also  to  put  it  into  its  true  outward  form,  to  be  seen  and 
admired  of  men.  Their  action  was  beautiful,  often  supreme- 
ly beautiful, — but  that  was  not  enough ;  they  turned  around 
after  having  performed  it,  and  rescued  it  from  the  moment 
of  time  in  which  it  was  born  and  in  which  it  might  perish, 
and  then  made  it  eternal  in  marble,  in  color,  in  prose,  in 
verse. 

Thus  we  can  behold  it  still.  On  the  temple  of  Wingless 
Victory  at  Athens  is  to  be  seen  at  this  day  a  frieze  represent- 
ing the  battle  of  Marathon.  There  is  still  to  be  read  that 
tremendous  war  poem,  the  Persae  of  ^Eschylus,  who  also 
f  ought  at  Marathon ;  the  white  heat  of  this  first  conflict  and 

O  ' 

of  the  later  Persian  war  can  still  be  felt  in  it  through  the  in- 
tervening thousands  of  years.  Upon  the  summit  of  the 
mound  where  we  now  stand,  ancient  works  of  Art  were 
doubtless  placed ;  the  stele  inscribed  with  the  names  of  the 
fallen  is  mentioned  by  Pausanias.  Only  a  short  distance 


Marathon.  117 

from  this  tomb  ancient  substructions  can  still  be  observed ; 
temples  and  shrines,  statues  and  monuments  must  have  been 
visible  here  on  all  sides ;  to  the  sympathetic  eye  the  whole 
plain  will  now  be  whitened  with  shapes  of  marble  softly  re- 
posing in  the  sunshine.  The  Greeks  are  indeed  the  supreme 
artistic  people,  they  have  created  the  beautiful  symbols  of  the 
world ;  they  have  furnished  the  artistic  type  and  have  em- 
bodied it  in  many  f  orms ;  they  had  the  ideal  and  gave  to  it 
an  adequate  expression.  Moderns  have  done  other  great 
things,  but  this  belongs  to  the  Greeks. 

So  after  the  mighty  Marathonian  deed  there  is  at  Athens  a 
most  determined  struggle,  a  supreme  necessity  laid  upon  the 
people  to  utter  it  worthily,  to  reveal  it  in  the  forms  of  Art 
and  thus  to  create  Beauty.  Architecture,  Sculpture,  Poetry 
spring  at  once  and  together  to  a  heighth  which  they  have 
hardly  since  attained,  trying  to  express  the  lofty  conscious- 
ness begotten  of  heroic  action.  Philosophy  too  followed ; 
but  chiefest  of  all,  the  Great  Men  of  the  time,  those  plastic 
shapes  in  flesh  and  blood,  manifesting  the  perfect  develop- 
ment and  harmony  of  mind  and  body,  rise  in  Olympian  ma- 
jesty and  make  the  next  hundred  years  after  the  battle  the 
supremest  intellectual  birth  of  the  ages ; — and  all  because 
the  Gods  fought  along  at  Marathon  and  must  thereafter  be 
revealed. . 

But  let  us  descend  from  this  height,  for  we  can  not  stay 
up  here  all  day — let  us  go  down  from  the  mound  resuming 
our  joyous  sauntering  occupation;  let  our  emotions,  still 
somewhat  exalted,  flow  down  quietly  and  mingle  once  more 
with  the  soft  pellucid  Marathonian  rill.  The  declining 
sun  is  warning  us  that  we  have  spent  the  greater  part  of  a 
day  in  wandering  over  the  plain  and  in  sitting  on  the  shore 


118    .  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

and  the  tumulus.  Let  us  still  trace  the  bed  of  the  river  up 
from  the  swamp ;  every  where  along  its  bank  and  in  its  chan- 
nel can  be  seen  fragments  of  edifices.  Here  are  ancient 
bricks  with  mortar  still  clinging  to  them ;  there  is  the  drum 
of  a  column  lying  in  the  sand,  half-buried ;  pieces  of  orna- 
mented capitals  look  up  at  you  from  the  ground  with  broken 
smiles.  Remains  of  a  wall  of  carefully  hewn  stone  speak  of 
a  worthy  superstructure ;  the  foundations  of  a  temple  of 
Bacchus  was  discovered  here  a  few  years  ago,  together  with 
a  curious  inscription  still  preserved  in  the  town.  The  frag- 
ments scattered  along  and  in  the  channel  for  half  a  mile  or 
more  tell  of  the  works  once  erected  on  this  spot  to  the  He- 
roes and  Gods  of  the  plain,  and  which  were  things  of  beauty. 
The  traveler  will  seek  to  rebuild  this  group  of  shrines  and 
temples,  each  in  its  proper  place  and  with  suitable  ornament ; 
he  will  fill  them  with  white  images,  with  altars  and  tripods  ; 
he  will  call  up  the  surging  crowd  of  meriy  Greek  worshipers 
passing  from  spot  to  spot  at  some  festival. 

As  one  walks  slowly  through  the  fields  in  the  pleasant  sun, 
a  new  delight  comes  over  him  at  the  view  of  the  flowers  of 
Marathon.  Everywhere  they  are  springing  up  over  the  plain, 
though  it  be  January  still — many  of  them  and  of  many  kinds, 
daisies,  dandelions,  and  primroses — looking  a  little  different- 
ly from  what  they  do  at  home,  yet  full  as  joyously.  The 
most  beautiful  is  a  kind  of  poppy  unknown  to  me  elsewhere ; 
so  let  me  call  it  the  Marathonian  poppy.  In  most  cases  it 
wraps  its  face  in  a  half-closed  calyx,  as  the  Greek  maiden 
covers  forehead  and  chin  in  her  linen  veil ;  still  you  can  look 
down  into  the  hood  of  leaves  and  there  behold  sparkling  dark 
eyes.  Some  of  the  flowers,  however,  are  entirely  open,  some 
only  in  bud  yet;  then  there  is  every  variety  of  color,  red, 


Marathon.  119 

purple,  and  blue,  with  infinitely  delicate  shadings.  One  tar- 
ries among  them  and  plays  after  baring  gone  through  the 
earnest  battle ;  he  will  stoop  down  and  pluck  a  large  hand- 
ful of  them  in  order  to  arrange  them  in  groups  passing  into 
one  another  by  the  subtlest  hues.  So,  after  being  in  such 
high  company,  one  gladly  becomes  for  a  time  a  child  once 
more  amid  the  Marathonian  poppies. 

If  it  were  in  me,  I  would  like  to  manifest  a  little  senti- 
ment over  the  name  of  the  flower  in  Modern  Greek.  It  is 
called  loulouthi — the  most  beautiful  word  for  a  beautiful 
thing  that  I  know  of  in  any  language,  particularly  if  it  be 
spoken  low  from  tender  lips  and  be  reached  by  gentle  fingers 
from  bosom  throbbing  visibly  faster.  The  ancient  Greek 
word  was  anthos ;  herein  the  voice  of  the  daughter  far  sur- 
passes that  of  the  mother,  to  my  ear  at  least.  And  there  are 
other  names  in  Modern  Greek  of  which  the  same  complimen- 
tary thing  can  be  said,  but  there  are  some  designations  con- 
cerning which  just  the  opposite  must  be  affirmed.  At  the 
j  mention  of  that  word  loulouthi  as  I  recollect,  the  face  of  the 
speaker  lights  up,  the  eye  kindles,  the  voice  grows  softer,  in- 
deed the  whole  appearance  is  transformed,  while  the  image  of 
the  thing  and  the  music  of  the  word  unite  in  producing  one 
delightful  melody  in  the  soul.  Such  are  my  associations 
with  the  name  that  it  speaks  of  green  fields,  and  wavy  slopes, 
of  transparent  rills  running  through  olive  orchards,  with  the 
song  of  maidens  gathering  the  fruit,  all  in  Greek  sunshine — 
making  together  a  harmony  which  seems  to  be  uttered  only 
in  that  one  word — loulouthi. 

Out  of  the  fields  of  poppies  I  pass  into  the  narrow  neck 
which  led  me  early  this  morning  from  the  village  into  the 
plain.  As  I  turn  back  and  look  again  at  those  lunar-shaped 


120  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

hills,  they  seem  to  glance  more  fiercely  than  ever  towards  the 
East,  inviting  into  their  retreating  folds  in  order  to  envelop 
and  crash.  The  first  shadow  of  evening  lies  upon  the  plain ; 
the  conifer  towers  up  in  the  middle  of  the  level  expanse ;  it 
is  still  the  sentinel  standing  there,  now  more  deeply  muffled 
in  his  war-cloak,  but  looking  out  watchfully  upon  the  sea  as 
if  the  enemy  were  yet  expected  there  and  he  was  ready  to 
shout  the  warning  to  the  hills.  The  mound,  too,  can  be 
seen  in  the  distance,  slightly  swelling  above  the  surface  of 
the  plain,  but  soon  its  outline  has  mingled  with  the  shadows. 
After  going  forward  a  little  further  I  turn  around  once  more 
and  look,  it  is  the  last  view  of  the  plain  of  Marathon — I  bid 
it  good-bye  and  resolutely  set  my  face  in  the  other  direction. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  village  I  met  the  schoolmaster,  cor- 
dial as  ever,  and  apparently  waiting  for  my  return.  I  asked 
him  to  take  me  to  the  school-house,  though  the  school  had 
been  dismissed  an  hour  or  more.  It  was  not  a  palace,  yet  it 
was  one  of  the  better  houses  of  the  place ;  pupils'  benches 
were  very  low,  teacher's  desk  very  high.  As  you  pick  up  a 
text-book  you  will  find  essentially  the  ancient  idiom  written 
in  the  ancient  letters ;  it  were  not  hard  to  imagine  some  old 
Greek  pedagogue  trouncing  his  boys  on  this  spot.  The 
youth  of  the  village  can  still  read  of  the  great  actions  here  in 
the  same  tongue  in  which  they  were  first  recorded — the  great 
actions  performed  upon  this  soil  by  the  men  whom  the  Greek 
people  still  delight  to  call  their  ancestors.  Yet  when  I  ask- 
ed the  schoolmaster  whether  he  had  ever  read  Herodotus' 
account  of  the  battle,  he  replied  that  he  had  not.  But  he 
had  written  poetry,  like  some  other  schoolmasters,  and  he 

gan  to  recite  me  his  verses.     Great  pleasure  it  gave  to  see 


Marathon.  121 

that  the  Muses  still  continue  to  hover  delightfully  around 
Marathon. 

As  I  come  out  of  the  school-house  in  the  late  dusk  of  the 
evening,  large  fires  are  blazing  up  at  various  points  on  the 
mountains.  One  thinks  of  those  ancient  war-signals  that 
leaped  from  peak  to  peak  rousing  the  people  to  resist  the  in- 
vader. Now  it  denotes  the  presence  of  a  different  race — the 
Wallachian  shepherd,  who  has  driven  in  his  herd  and  kindled 
his  camp-fire  around  which  he  is  to  repose  for  the  night.  It 
is  quite  chilly,  while  the  day  has  been  very  agreeable  on  ac- 
count of  the  sunshine ;  I  would  not  like  to  be  in  his  place, 
though  yesterday  evening  I  thought  that  I  might  have  to 
seek  his  company  with  the  warmth  of  his  fire  and  of  his  bed 
of  leaves.  Under  the  almond  trees  the  Didaskali  walks  with 
me  in  pleasant  chat,  the  tender  almond  blossoms  of  mid-win- 
ter drooping  over  our  heads  in  the  soft  twilight. 

I  came  back  to  the  wineshop,  feeling  as  if  I  had  fought  a 
day  at  Marathon — wearied,  yet  full  of  triumphant  joy  like  a 
returning  soldier.  After  supper  my  audience  was  again  be- 
fore me,  ready  for  a  speech  which  I  did  not  make :  but  they 
were  equally  eager  to  hear  strange  stories  from  the  other 
world,  whose  inhabitant  in  their  presence  they  curiously 
gazed  upon.  One  of  the  Albanians,  observing  that  I  talked 
French  with  the  schoolmaster  and  Greek  with  the  rest  of 
them,  while  I  said  that  my  native  tongue  was  Enghsh,  asked 
me  how  many  languages  I  knew.  I  gave  him  the  number 
with  which  I  had  more  or  less  occupied  myself  at  different 
times  of  my  life,  when  he  crossed  himself  on  his  breast  rap- 
pidly,  took  off  his  headkerchief ,  and  made  a  long  profound 
bow,  muttering  a  prayer  not  to  me  but  to  the  Virgin,  as  I 
understood  him.  What  he  meant  by  all  this  ceremony,  I  do 


122 


A.  Walk  in  Hellas 


not  know ;  but  I  imagine  that  he  only  intended  to  pay  his 
respects  to  what  he  considered  the  biggest  fib  he  had  ever 
heard  in  his  life.  I  do  not  propose  to  repeat  to  you  the 
number  which  I  mentioned,  lest  you  may  go  through  with 
some  gesticulations  like  the  Albanian. 

The  Papas,  that  long-haired  Achaean,  was  also  on  hand, 
and  again  introduced  the  subject  of  baptism,  most  discor- 
dant theme  at  Marathon.  I  shifted  quickly  to  the  answer 
of  another  question  which  led  me  to  tell  of  the  city  where  I 
:  lived; — rSt.  Louis  among  her  other  virtues  is  capable  of 
being  translated  into  tolerable  Greek.  I  spoke  of  her  com- 
merce, of  her  great  river,  of  her  railroads  with  their  enor- 
Imous  distances  yet  speedy  transit-  I  spoke  of  her  popula- 
tion, now  a  tragic  theme,  alas!  too  deep  for  tears.  Five 
hundred  thousand  at  least  she  had,  I  said,  and  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  I  stopped  there.  Little  did  I  then  think  that  a 
plague  would  so  soon  sweep  over  our  fair  city,  a  plague 
worse  than  war,  worse  than  cholera,  and  at  one  fell  swoop 
would  carry  off  hundreds  of  thousands  of  our  best  citizens — 
that  plague  of  a  census.  Utter  astonishment  there  was  on 
those  Albanian  faces,  but  the  ideas  must  have  been  vague, 
for  one  of  the  men  asked  me  whether  Greenland  was  near 
my  city — whereat  the  schoolmaster  sharply  reproved  the 
questioner.  But  for  many  minutes  I  continued  the  encomi- 
astic vein,  and  I  can  not  but  think  that  Agios  Loudophikus 
will  remain  in  memory  a  little  while  at  Marathon.  Such  was, 
then,  the  bright  vision  of  our  home,  beheld  in  the  far  dis- 
tance through  Marathouian  gleams. 

But  will  this  city  ever  mean  to  the  world  the  thousandth 
part  of  what  Marathon  means  ?  Will  it  ever  make  a  banner 
under  which  civilization  will  march  ?  Will  it  ever  create  a 


Marathon.  123 

symbol  which  nations  will  contemplate  as  a  thing  of  beauty 
and  as  a  hope-inspiring  prophecy  of  their  destiny?  Will  it 
rear  any  men  to  be  exemplars  for  the  race  ?  Alas !  no  such 
man  has  she  yet  produced,  very  little  sign  of  such  things  is 
here  at  present ;  we  are  not  a  symbol-making  people,  do  not 
know  nor  care  what  that  means ;  our  ambition  is  to  make 
canned  beef  for  the  race — and  to  correct  the  census.  St. 
Louis  has  some  fame  abroad  as  a  flour  market,  but  she  is 
likely  to  be  forgotten  by  ungrateful  man  as  soon  as  he  has 
eaten  his  loaf  of  bread  or  can  get  it  from  elsewhere.  A 
great  population  she  has  doubtless,  greater  than  Athens  ever 
had ;  but  I  can  not  see,  with  the  best  good-will,  that  in  the 
long  run  there  is  much  difference  between  the  350,000  who 
are  here  and  the  150,000  who  are  not,  but  were  supposed  to 
be.  Marathon  river  is  often  a  river  without  water,  but  will 
turbid  Mississippi  with  her  thousands  of  steamboats — stop ! 
this  strain  is  getting  discordant,  at  Marathon]  should  be 
heard  no  dissonance,  least  of  all  the  dissonance  of  despair. 
Yes,  there  is  hope ;  while  the  future  lasts — and  it  will  be  a 
long  time  before  that  ceases — there  is  hope.  The  Marathou- 
ian  catabothron  is  certain  to  rise  here  yet,  with  many  other 
catabothrons  and  form  with  native  rivers  a  new  stream  un- 
heard of  in  the  history  of  the  world.  Who  of  us  has  not 
some  such  article  of  faith  ?  When  this  valley  has  its  milliard 
of  human  beings  in  throbbing  activity  over  its  surface,  we, 
all  of  us  I  doubt  not,  shall  look  back  from  some  serene 
height  and  behold  them ;  we  shall  then  see  that  so  many  peo- 
ple have  created  their  beautiful  symbol. 


TALK  FIFTH. 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo. 

THE  first  stage  of  my  trip  was  now  accomplished.  When 
I  left  Athens  on  foot,  you  will  recollect  that  I  was  not  cer- 
tain of  reaching  Marathon ;  but  Marathon  now  lies  behind 
me  a  conquered  territory,  and  I  am  resolved  to  push  forward 
to  some  other  destination ;  where  it  is,  I  do  not  exactly 
know,  but  I  am  going  to  follow  the  image.  Up  the  Euripus 
lies  Aulis,  the  port  where  the  hosts  of  Agamemnon  embarked 
for  Troy ;  perchance  some  ancient  shapes  may  still  haunt  the 
spot ;  thither  accordingly  let  us  turn  our  steps.  It  will  be  a 
fair  walk  of  two  days ;  at  the  end  of  the  first  day  is  a  con- 
venient town  called  Marcopoulo,  where  there  is  reported  to 
be  a  Man,  or  Greek  inn.  Aristides,  the  merchant,  is  going 
part  of  the  way ;  him  we  shall  accompany  with  fresh  delight. 

So  favorable  had  the  trip  been  thus  far  that  all  thought  of 
danger  from  brigands  had  quietly  passed  out  of  mind. 
There  was  an  unconscious  assurance  on  every  side  that  the 
country  was  perfectly  safe ;  people  were  seen  at  work  every- 
where, and  people  who  work  are  not  robbers  and  will  not 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  125 

tolerate  robbery.  Men  were  manifestly  the  same  here  as  in 
other  parts  of  the  world — just  as  honest  and  just  as  orderly ; 
it  would  have  been  a  contemptible  piece  of  cowardice  to  have 
felt  insecurity  any  longer. 

A  little  after  daylight  I  rose — daylight  does  not  come  too 
early  at  this  season — and  took  my  position  before  the  wine- 
shop, observing  the  people  pass  to  their  labor  in  the  fields. 
All  were  hastening  toward  the  plain — men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren ;  it  was  the  season  for  trimming  the  vines  and  picking 
the  olives ;  every  hand  could  find  something  to  do.  The 
long-haired  Papas  went  by  with  his  pruning-hook,  leading  a 
little  girl  whom  he  in  fatherly  pride  showed  to  me  as  a  future 
Cleopatra;  his  wife,  with  a  babe  in  her  arms  and  a  large 
grubbing-hoe  on  her  shoulder,  passed,  adjusting  more  close- 
ly her  head-wrappage  as  she  approached.  Also  the  Dicast, 
the  village  judge,  went  by,  bearing  an  implement  of  labor, 
dressed  to-day  in  Ms  old  clothes,  yet  keeping  on  his  Parisian 
hat.  It  was  a  working  day  at  Marathon. 

Soon  the  merchant  appeared  with  his  store  upon  the  back 
of  the  little  donkey;  from  the  small  company  which  had 
gathered  before  the  wineshop  we  started  on  our  way  up  the 
valley  amid  friendly  farewells.  The  pleasant  waters  of  the 
Marathonian  river  met  us  with  the  incessant  babble  of  a 
baby,  and  a  baby  of  a  river  it  is.  The  village  slowly  re- 
cedes ;  one  turns  around  often  and  looks  at  the  houses  lying 
along  the  banks  of  the  stream  and  sending  up  blue  wreaths 
of  smoke  in  idyllic  tranquility.  Beyond  the  village  let  us 
glance  once  more  into  the  plain  where  the  battle  was  fought, 
and  whither  groups  of  peasants  are  now  moving ;  still  fur- 
ther beyond  let  us  catch  at  intervals  the  faint  blue  sparkle  of 
the  surface  of  the  sea.  But  look  at  the  skies  yonder ;  clouds 


126  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

are  gathering  over  the  plain,  sullen  squadrons  of  them  are 
hurrying  along,  preparing  for  a  Marathonian  battle  of  the 
elements.  Yet  one  must  pass  on,  though  hesitatingly ;  there 
is  a  peculiar  emotion,  as  one  separates  from  this  historic 
spot;  he  has  a  feeling  of  weight,  the  weight  of  a  mighty 
past,  which,  though  departed  forever,  still  casts  a  dark  out- 
line upon  the  soul ;  it  is  a  monument  whose  very  shadow  is 
heavy  and  burdens  with  its  presence. 

But  not  ancient  story  alone  is  found  here ;  some  traces  are 
left  of  intervening  times.  Yonder  at  the  entrance  to  the  val- 
ley is  the  ruin  of  a  Turkish  tower  erected  for  the  purpose  of 
watching  this  region.  It  is  now  wholly  deserted,  but  it 
stands  as  one  of  the  mementos  of  centuries  of  hateful  op- 
pression. The  merchant  tells  me  that  three  hundred  Greeks 
were  murdered  there  during  the  Revolution  by  the  Turks.  It 
is  a  spot  haunted  and  accursed — shunned  by  the  country 
people  who  in  that  locality  can  still  hear  at  the  middle  of  the 
night  the  curses  of  the  infidels  with  the  groans  of  dying  men» 
Now  it  is  left  to  decay — the  sign  of  odious  tyranny  which 
also  has  f alien  to  ruin ;  and  the  prayer  which  the  traveler 
puts  up,  as  he  passes  it,  is,  that  never  again  this  or  any  other 
tower  may  watch  over  an  enslaved  Marathon. 

At  the  turn  of  the  road  the  town  disappears,  though  the 
chattering  stream  is  still  leaping  merrily  along  at  our  side. 
But  the  clouds  which  all  morning  have  threatened  village  and 
plain,  now  overtake  us  and  begin  to  dash  down  large  drops 
of  water  into  our  faces.  This  was  at  first  regarded  merely 
as  a  sportive  sprinkle  from  Zeus,  but  the  matter  continued  to 
grow  more  serious,  and  it  soon  became  manifest  that  the 
God  was  in  earnest,  if  not  in  anger.  My  great  coat  became 
saturated  and  very  heavy,  so  my  obliging  companion  loosen- 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  127 

eel  from  his  pack  a  shaggy  capote  and  handed  it  to  me  for  a 
change.  This  garment  is  very  useful  for  such  weather ;  it  is 
made  of  goat's  hair  so  compactly  woven  that  it  sheds  rain. 
It  has  joined  to  it  at  the  top  a  pointed  cap  of  the  same  mate- 
rial, into  which  the  head  is  thrust  and  protected.  My  friend 
also  insisted  upon  taking  my  bundle  and  laying  it  on  the 
back  of  that  poor  heavy-laden  donkey,  but  I  protested  and 
continued  to  carry  it  myself. 

I  [have  already  told  you  that  my  companion  is  called  by 
the  classic  appellation  of  Aristides ;  he  informs  me  that  he 
has  an  uncle  at  Oropus  who  is  a  schoolmaster  by  the  name  of 
Aristoteles.  These  ancient  designations  are  not  without 
their  effect ;  I  rejoice  that  the  Marathonian  name  Aristides 
still  lingers  here  and  seeks  my  company,  having  returned  to 
its  former  haunts ;  for  ancient  Aristides,  called  the  Just,  was 
in  the  battle  of  Marathon  and  notably  commanded  a  de- 
tachment of  Athenians.  So  I  walk  along  with  a  veritable 
Aristides,  talking  Greek  to  me,  and  revealing,  one  will 
think,  certain  spiritual  outlines  of  his  great  namesake.  But 
he  is  a  man  of  business  and  herein  has  a  decidedly  modern 
tinge ;  his  main  characteristic  is  brightness,  coupled  with  a 
youthful  manner  which  is  peculiarly  Greek,  though  he  be 
over  thirty.  A  quick  nervous  action  accompanies  all  his 
movements,  showing  a  spirit  restless  and  struggling  with  its 
limits ;  of  steady  patience  he  has  but  little,  particularly  for 
his  patience-trying  donkey.  His  friendliness  is  unbounded, 
yet  not  ostentatious ;  he  has  already  invited  me  to  put  up 
•with  him  at  O?opus  and  see  his  uncle  Aristoteles  the  school- 
master, who,  he  claims,  is  no  unworthy  representative  of  the 
illustrious  name. 

At  this  point  we  may  notice  an  honorable  trait  of  the 


128  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

modern  Greek :  it  is  the  desire  of  inheriting  the  greatness  as 
well  as  the  fame  of  his  ancient  kinsmen.  Hence  these  names 
of  the  distinguished  worthies  of  antiquity  are  very  common 
at  present ;  sometimes  they  make  an  incongruous  impression. 
One  meets  with  Plato  in  baggy  blue  breeches  and  pointed 
red  moccasins  carrying  greasy  oil-skins;  one  beholds  De 

% 

mosthenes  in  fez  and  fustanella  belaboring  his  refractory 
mule ;  in  a  country  town  I  saw  two  women  engaged  in  fu- 
rious combat,  using  their  distaffs  as  weapons — they  were 
Penelope  and  Clytemnestra. 

Also  my  friend  Aristides,  like  his  ancient  namesake,  is  a 
true  patriot  with  a  keen  insight  into  the  evils  and  dangers  of 
Greece.  The  smallness  of  her  territory,  her  dependance  on 
the  whims  and  interests  of  the  Great  European  Powers,  her 
lack  of  internal  development,  her  manifold  governmental 
ills  are  subjects  of  the  sharpest  regret;  still,  he  has  hope 
and  thinks  that  in  the  fifty  years  of  independance  she  has 
done  wonders.  Just  at  present  the  political  outlook  seems 
gloomy ;  he  feels  certain  that  Turkey  will  not  yield  the  limits 
ceded  by  the  Treaty  of  Berlin.  ' '  Patience,  oh  just  Aris- 
tides !  "  is  all  that  the  sympathizing  stranger  can  say  to  him, 
' '  far  more  difficult  things  have  been  accomplished  even  in 
our  day."  "Whereat  with  dark  eyes  brimming  and  with  a 
nervous  twitch  he  pokes  his  stick  into  the  sides  of  the  don- 
key, which  has  taken  advantage  of  the  interesting  conversa- 
tion to  come  to  a  full  pause. 

Nor  should  we  pass  by  this  occasion  without  noticing  an- 
other leading  trait  of  the  modern  Greek.  Not  only  does  he 
look  up  to  the  ancient  worthies  of  his  nation  and  seek  to  in- 
herit their  celebrity  and  culture,  but  he  has  also  a  modern 
Idea,  which  constitutes  the  very  marrow  of  his  being.  That 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  129 

Idea  is  the  enfranchisement  and  regeneration  of  the  entire 
Greek  race ;  in  fact,  the  whole  Orient  is  to  receive  a  new 
birth  through  the  new  Greece.  The  Greek  Revolution  failed 
to  emancipate  the  Greek ;  only  a  little  over  one  million  out 
of  twelve  were  then  freed.  "But,"  says  Aristides,  "we  did 
not  win  by  force  of  arms  ;  now  we  shall  conquer  by  intelli- 
gence. We  intend  to  kindle  such  a  light  here  in  the  East 
that  the  Turk  will  have  to  get  out  of  its  glare.  Thessaly  is 
already  ours  by  the  consent  of  Europe ;  then  Macedonia  will 
follow ;  Constantinople  is  the  goal  and  we  shall  soon  be  there 
in  our  ancient  imperial  seat.  To-day  our  university  educates 
the  brain  of  the  Turkish  empire  ;  those  barbarians  would  be 
helpless  without  Greek  intellect.  Yes,  the  Orient  must  be- 
come Hellenic  again,  and  Constantinople  is  to  be  the  cap- 
ital." 

Such  is  the  great  modern  Idea  of  which  our  modern  Aris- 
tides is  a  most  zealous  expounder.  But  it  is  just  this  Idea 
which  Western  Europe  from  various  causes  has  refused  to 
accept.  England,  in  particular,  has  set  herself  against  the 
hopes  of  a  whole  race  allied  in  religion  and  civilization  in 
favor  of  the  barbarous  Ottoman.  Assuredly  the  Oriental 
policy  of  England  has  been  a  mistake  ;  it  is  always  a  mistake 
to  run  counter  to  the  struggles  of  a  great  people  for  enfran- 
chisement and  unity.  Yet  such  .has  been  hitherto  the  atti- 
tude of  England  in  the  East.  If  she  had  put  herself  at  the 
head  of  this  strong  national  aspiration  instead  of  stifling  it, 
the  vexed  Oriental  question  would  now  have  been  solved,  or 
have  looked  to  a  happy  solution  in  the  near  future. 

Indeed,  upon  an  inspection  of  some  of  these  Oriental 
transactions  of  the  English,  one  is  inclined  to  ask  them 
strange  questions ;  among  others  this  one  obtrudes  itself  into 


130  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

the  soul :  Do  you  then  believe  that  there  is  a  God  in  the  uni- 
verse? If  there  be,  he  is  with  the  people  who  are  with 
deepest  longing  and  agony  struggling  for  light  and  freedom, 
however  awkward  and  absurd  these  attempts  may  be.  Eng- 
land does  not  believe  in  the  deity  of  ignorance  and  slavery ; 
yet  she  persists  in  doing  that  which  she  does  not  allow  her 
God  to  do.  She  preaches  at  home  the  divinity  of  liberty  and 
humanity,  and  will  defend  the  same  with  the  last  drop  of 
English  blood ;  but  abroad  she  upholds  the  Mahomedan  Tar- 
tar against  the  Christian  Greek.  Strange  that  England  has 
still  any  faith  in  a  God.  Yet  she  is  to-day  the  most  relig- 
ious country  in  Europe,  it  is  said ;  her  upper  classes  are 
often  declared  to  be  the  only  upper  classes  who  are  generally 
imbued  with  a  strong  feeling  of  religion.  The  Englishman 
has  certainly  a  high  conception  both  of  deity  and  humanity ; 
he  would  scout  a  God  who  could  create  the  institution  of 
slavery  or  make  heaven  a  harem.  But  looking  at  this  East- 
ern question  and  its  history  can  any  one  doubt  that  he  will 
retain  his  fellowman  in  bondage  to  strangers  in  faith  and 
race,  that  he  will  give  himself  privileges  which  he  refuses  to 
his  God?  The  worship  of  the  highest,  most  universal  type 
ought  to  produce  the  highest,  most  universal  conduct ;  but 
it  must  be  set  down  as  characteristic  of  England,  and  also  of 
New  England,  indeed  of  the  whole  Anglo-Saxon  conscious- 
ness, to  divorce  speculation  from  action,  to  nurse  conviction 
with  effeminate  fondness  just  one  day  of  the  week,  then  care- 
fully to  lock  it  up  the  remaining  six  as  something  too  tender 
and  impracticable  for  daily  use  in  this  exceedingly  practical 
world  of  ours.  So  the  Greek  Idea  is  theoretically  very  fine, 
even  merits  our  sympathy,  but  it  is  not  practical.  Ah  yes ; 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  131 

what  we  worship  as  truth  in  God,  we  put  down  as  a  lie,  or  at 
least  as  a  delusion  in  Man. 

Who,  therefore,  can  blame  Aristides  if  he  has  no  love  for 
England  ?  I  believe  that  he  has  a  right  to  his  indignation ; 
therein  many  an  Englishman,  I  would  fain  believe  the  ma- 
jority, would  join  him  and  me.  So  we  go  on  discussing  in 
the  rain  the  Great  Idea,  which  is  the  matter  always  upper- 
most in  the  heart  of  the  Greek,  and  which,  I  imagine,  he 
pours  out  more  freely  to  an  American,  who  can  not  help 
being  sympathetic.  But  from  the  Great  Idea  he  suddenly 
falls  to  punching  the  donkey  which  takes  many  a  little  liber- 
ty during  the  time  we  are  absorbed  in  conversation,  and  will 
not  suffer  us  to  forget  its  important  presence. 

This  is  the  picture  which  I  would  have  you  look  at  with  a 
little  interest :  two  persons  in  shaggy  capotes  are  walking  up 
the  valley  of  a  small  stream,  amid  the  gray  drizzle ;  they 
often  slip  on  the  wet  stones  with  their  soggy  shoes  which  are 
continually  getting  broader  and  threaten  to  go  to  pieces ; 
they  slowly  wind  around  in  the  tortuous  mule-path  through 
the  many  folds  of  the  hills  covered  everywhere  with  under- 
brush and  rocks ;  their  two  voices  can  always  be  heard,  in 
question  and  response,  wandering  through  the  deserted 
glens  which,  affrighted  at  times,  send  back  a  fleeting  answer ; 
one  of  the  voices  is  strewing  curious  fragments  of  broken 
Greek  through  all  these  solitudes,  to  the  repeated  horror  of 
fair  nymph  Echo.  Clouds  at  intervals  descend  to  the  earth 
and  enwrap  the  two  pedestrians  in  a  moist  sheet  of  mist ; 
then  they  rise  again  having  discharged  their  watery  burden, 
and  for  a  moment  break  into  silvery  translucent  fleeces  be- 
neath which  gleams  the  sun,  whom  they  now  promise  to  un- 
veil ;  but  there  follows  a  new  gathering  of  the  cloudy  squad- 


132  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

rons  over  Marathon,  which  pass  heavily  above  and  throw 
down  a  pitiless  shower.  Aristides  turning  nervously  around 
and  looking  up  at  the  skies,  sees  the  fresh  storm  coming; 
getting  in  a  huriy  he  pokes  the  donke}-. 

And  that  donkey,  the  third  one  of  our  goodly  company, 
must  not  be  omitted.  Patiently  it  steps  along  before  us,  se- 
lecting always  the  securest  way  through  the  slippery  rocks, 
while  we  blindly  follow.  Not  infrequently  it  will  prick  up 
its  long  ears  and  look  intelligently  at  some  object  by  the 
side  of  the  road,  then  it  will  calmly  lay  them  back  at  a 
change  of  thought.  That  play  of  the  donkey's  ears — back- 
wards and  forwards — what  is  the  meaning  of  it  ?  That  were 
a  new  and  curious  subject  of  speculation ;  to  me  it  is  one  of 
the  great  mysteries  of  creation.  Once  he  turned  around  his 
big  head  and  with  jeering  eye  looked  at  us  engaged  in  ani- 
mated talk,  then  mingled  a  loud  bray  with  the  Great  Idea ; 
so  the  two  notes  went  echoing  together  over  the  hills. 

The  donkey  is  small,  not  much  larger  than  a  Newfound- 
land dog,  but  he  is  eveiy  inch — a  donkey.  He  has  a  sort  of 
dry  humor  in  him  which  always  makes  him  a  good  compan- 
-  ion.  Imperturbable,  almost  indifferent  to  blows,  in  lead- 
colored  coat  of  hair  he  plods  on,  playing  backwards  and  for- 
wards his  ears,  having  some  secret  inner  entertainment  all  to 
himself.  He  is  an  indispensable  beast  of  burden  mid  these 
stony  mountain  paths ;  no  horse  could  ever  travel  over  this 
road  with  safety.  The  donkey  is  not  rapid,  but  he  sets 
those  little  round  hoofs  of  his  down  on  the  earth  with  a 
swiftness  and  dexterity  that  make  his  four  feet  twinkle  like 
so  many  dancing  stars.  See  how 'mincingly  he  treads,  pick- 
ing out  the  way  so  daintily,  never  making  a  false  step — a 
solid  joy  to  the  sympathetic  companion  behind  him.  But  at 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  133 

times  he  unaccountably  stops  right  in  the  road,  stops  us, 
stops  the  conversation ;  then  comes  another  fateful  punch 
from  the  hand  of  Aristides. 

On  the  back  of  the  little  animal  is  the  store  of  Aristides 
who  has  just  supplied  the  women  of  Marathon  with  dry  goods, 
in  return  for  which  he  takes  the  fruits  of  the  earth ;  he  has 
now  a  large  quantity  of  almonds  in  an  enormous  package 
lashed  to  the  crupper  of  the  donkey.  Thus  the  greater  por- 
tion of  internal  trade  is  carried  on  through  these  regions. 
The  traveling  merchant  is  one  of  the  main  figures  in  the 
social  organism.  He  is  usually  capable  and  well-informed ; 
he  scatters  not  only  goods  but  ideas,  especially  the  Great  Idea. 
He  knows  everybody,  he'  brings  information  to  these  villages 
in  regard  to  the  latest  diplomatic  relations  between  Greece 
and  Turkey ;  he  scores  early  every  approach  toward  Constan- 
tinople. New  thoughts,  new  hopes,  new  political  catchwords 
he  sets  in  circulation  among  the  people,  all  of  which  in  their 
own  good  time  will  bear  fruit' ;  but  his  chief  yet  self -imposed 
duty  is  to  be  the  unflinching  advocate  of  the  Great  Idea. 
Sharp  at  a  bargain  this  Greek  trader  is  without  a  doubt ;  but 
my  Aristides,  I  do  not  believe,  is  dishonest,  he  is  just,  I  af- 
firm, notwithstanding  the  bad  name  which  many  folks  give 
the  Greeks.  Certainly  he  is  very  friendly,  and  I  should  call 
him  tender-hearted,  were  it  not  for  the  way  in  which  he  pokes 
his  stick  into  the  withers  of  our  third  companion,  the  don- 
key. This  fact  I  have  repeated  to  you  before,  I  believe ; 
still  my  repetitions  are  scarce  as  one  in  a  hundred  to  the 
thrusts  of  Aristides. 

Down  comes  a  heavy  shower  again;  we  pass  through  a 
wild  mountain  glen  in  which  is  situated  an  old  lonely  mill 
with  mossy  wheel ;  we  reach  a  grove  of  beautiful  plane-trees 


134  A   Walk  in  Hellas. 

and  ford  the  Marathonian  brook,  now  somewhat  swollen 
with  the  rains.  In  this  secluded  spot  a  man  dressed  in  white 
fustanella  approaches  and  talks  with  us ;  Aristides  tells  me 
that  it  is  a  neighboring  land-owner.  I  was  surprised  to  find 
in  him  a  person  of  an  exquisitely  refined  address,  with  an 
ease  and  grace  worthy  of  the  most  cultivated  society.  The 
wild  scenery  around  us  was  in  marked  contrast  to  his  courtly 
manners.  He  inquired  the  news,  was  deeply  interested  in 
politics,  as  all  Greeks  are ;  on  learning  ray  nationality  he 
spoke  in  friendly  terms  of  America,  and  at  parting  he  put 
the  two  latest  newspapers  from  Athens  into  my  hands.  His 
polished  address  seemed  like  a  brilliant  gem  lost  amid  those 
solitudes ;  I  would  have  picked  up  the  gem  and  brought  it 
along,  if  I  had  been  able. 

Still  Aristides  and  myself  converse,  walking  defiantly 
through  the  passing  showers,  and  many  are  the  things  which 
he  tells  me.  His  characterisation  of  the  various  peoples  of 
Greece  is  good  and  trustworthy'  for  it  the  result  of  long  in- 
tercourse. Implicitly  he  places  the  Greek  first  of  all  races ; 
he  is  himself  of  pure  Greek  blood  and  takes  pride  in  his  line- 
age. He  says  that  there  are  very  few  genuine  Greeks  in 
these  parts,  that  there  are  more  at  Oropus,  his  town,  than 
elsewhere.  He  considered  the  Wallachians  to  be  a  more 
capable  people  than  the  Albanians,  though  he  thought  well  of 
the  latter ;  for  Albanians,  besides  making  the  best  soldiers 
in  the  East,  had  turned  out  excellent  scholars,  philologists 
and  theologians. 

I  liked  the  talk  of  Aristides  much ;  there  was  in  it  no  ex- 
cess of  any  kind,  it  had  the  Greek  moderation  as  well  as  the 
Greek  aspiration  after  an  ideal;  his  condemnatory  judg- 
ments of  men  and  things  would  always  in  the  end  brighten 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  135 

into  hopefulness.  Only  concerning  a  very  few  of  the  coun- 
try-women in  these  regions  his  report,  given  in  response  to  a 
question  of  mine,  was  not  favorable.  But  his  statement  in 
regard  to  the  morals  of  the  Greek  peasantry  in  general  may 
be  taken  as  true,  and  coincides  with  the  declaration  of  many 
observers,  that  in  this  respect  they  are  the  most  exemplary 
of  all  peoples  in  Europe. 

At  one  place  he  suddenly  stops,  shouting  a  halt  to  the  don- 
key which  willingly  obeys.  With  great  deliberation  reaching 
his  hand  into  his  pocket,  he  takes  out  a  peutari — a  coin 
worth  not  quite  one  cent — and  deposits  it  in  a  square  hole 
hewn  into  a  stone  which  stood  at  the  side  of  the  road.  I 
asked  him  what  he  did  that  for?  He  pointed  to  a  small 
dilapidated  building  in  the  distance  and  said  it  was  for  the 
repairs  of  that  church.  The  offerings  of  the  pious  wayfarers 
were  placed  here ;  accordingly  I  went  up  and  laid  down  my 
cent  too,  then  continued  my  journey,  feeling  much  better,  I 
thought.  There  lie  the  two  cents  exposed  on  the  stone  along- 
side of  the  road,  without  danger,  it  seems,  of  being  pilfered. 
I  thought  to  myself :  "Where  in  the  neighborhood  of  my  town 
could  two  cents  lie  exposed  in  that  way  without  being  snap- 
ped up  by  one  of  her  bank  presidents,  perhaps,  or  at  least  by 
ruthless  urchin  who  would  bring  them  in  all  speed  to  the 
nearest  candy  shop  ? 

Then  Aristides  gives  the  donkey  a  smart  poke,  and  we  are 
off  again,  having  performed  our  work  of  charity.  Not  with- 
out a  happy  jollity,  not  without  an  internal  feeling  of  unas- 
sailableness  by  the  tempest  do  we  draw  our  meandering  line 
around  the  hills,  through  the  vales,  over  swollen  brooks, 
dashing  into  walls  of  clouds  and  showers.  At  last  the  storm 
gives  up  the  task  of  subduing  us,  the  squadrons  flee,  the  sun 


136  A  Walk  in 

bursts  out  of  the  sky  with  shining  face  and  laughs  in  a 
chorus  with  us. 

In  the  meantime  Aristides  becomes  also  more  confiding ; 
he  tells  me  the  story  of  his  courtship  and  marriage :  how  he 
fell  in  love  with  a  pair  of  eyes  jet-black  and  of  infinite 
sparkle  but  without  any  money,  though  there  were  wealthy 
brothers ;  how  he  succeeded  in  getting  the  wealthy  broth- 
ers to  give  a  marriage  portion  to  the  sister,  3,000 
drachmas — say  600  dollars — cash;  how  he  then  pounced 
down  and  carried  off  both  maiden  and  money,  the  lucky 
man !  Thereupon  in  the  pride  of  success  he  embarked  in  an 
unfortunate  speculation,  lost  all,  all  his,  all  hers,  and  more 
too,  the  unlucky  man!  Now  the  black  eyes,  no  longer  so 
sparkling  as  they  were,  he  possesses  still,  but  without  the 
beautiful  drachmas ;  nay,  he  has  in  addition  two  small 
mouths,  making  four  altogether,  which  must  have  bread. 
At  present  he  is  reduced  to  being  a  pedlar,  to  going  about  the 
country  and  selling  by  the  cent's  worth, — it  is  a  lot  too  hard, 
too  humiliating!  "Alas!  Aristides,"  cries  the  condoling 
companion  at  his  side,  "such  is  the  common  destiny  of  us 
all ;  thou  hast  indeed  seen  better  days,  so  have  I,  so  has  the 
donkey." 

But  Aristides  can  not  be  melancholy  for  more  than  a  mo- 
ment, he  always  turns  the  darkest  thoughts  of  the  past  into 
bright  gleams  of  hope.  He  is  not  weary  of  life,  far  from  it ; 
nor  does  he  love  his  wife  the  less  because  he  has  lost  her 
money,  as  is  the  case  with  some  men  whom  I  know.  The 
only  f ailing  I  have  found  in  him  is  the  energy  and  persistency 
with  which  he  punches  the  ribs  of  our  patient  third  com- 
panion, the  donkey.  The  brave  little  animal  still  moves  its 
ears  backwards  and  forwards  with  a  silent  humor;  it  still 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopouio.  137 

trips  along  with  an  inner  complacency,  although  I  notice  that 
with  heavy  burdens  and  bad  roads  it  is  beginning  to  give 
out.  At  last  out  of  so  many  steps  taken  to-day  it  makes 
one  false  step — Aristides  and  I  have  made  a  dozen  such  at 
least,  without  any  load,  and  we  have  slipped  and  slid  quite 
to  the  ground  on  the  wet  stones  ;  but  that  one  misstep  brings 
it  to  its  knees,  then  down  prostrate  under  the  superincum- 
bent weight.  Thereupon  follow  still  sharper  punches  than 
ever ;  I  had  to  cry  out :  Be  just,  oh  Aristides,  be  just  even 
to  the  donkey ;  see  what  a  burden  of  yours  it  is  carrying, 
think  how  courageously  it  has  held  out  to-day,  show  your- 
self now  worthy  of  your  great  namesake ;  be  just. 

So  with  kindly  hands  we  help  up  our  fallen  companion ; 
passing  a  little  hill  we  enter  the  small  hamlet  of  Capandriti 
where  we  hasten  to  take  off  all  his  fardels  and  give  him  rest. 
Then  we  go  into  the  wineshop  and  sit  down  on  the  bench ; 
we  are  still  wet,  but  we  dry  ourselves  with  abundant  draughts 
of  the  golden  recinato — that  wonderful  liquid,  which  wets 
the  dry  man  and  dries  the  wet  man.  It  is  already  high 
noon ;  we  order  a  dinner  of  eggs  fried  in  oil,  and  black 
bread ;  no  Parisian  dinner,  according  to  my  taste,  ever 
equaled  the  luxury  of  that  repast.  There  are  also  two  merry 
Greek  hunters  at  the  wineshop  who  at  once  take  a  share  in 
the  talk  and  in  the  viands. 

Let  us  now  look  at  Aristides  with  our  two  new  associates, 
squatting  at  the  flue  and  making  a  cup  of  coffee.  Each  of 
them  has  a  small  tin  pot,  holding  hardly  as  much  as  the 
ordinary  teacup ;  this  is  filled  with  water  and  shoved  into 
the  coals  by  its  long  handle  till  the  water  boils  ;  then  a  cou- 
ple of  spoonfulls  of  coffee  with  some  sugar  is  thrown  into  it, 
when  it  is  shoved  back  into  tlie  coals  and  brought  to  a  boil 


138  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

the  second  time.  Thus  they  squat  there  before  the  fire,  pre- 
paring their  warm  beverage  and  talking  politics.  All  Greek 
men  do  likewise,  and  indeed  all  Greek  men  cook,  and  often 
cook  well ;  if  the  wife  happens  to  be  in  the  fields  at  some 
task,  the  man  will  go  to  work  and  get  a  dinner,  and  a  good 
one  too.  Many  a  Palicari  have  I  seen  twirling  before  the 
fire  a  spit  filled  with  meat  or  laden  with  a  turkey ;  he  knew 
what  he  was  about.  But  the  coffee  of  Aristides  is  done ;  it 
is  not  discolored  with  milk,  nor  is  it  strained  or  settled ;  he 
pours  it  off  into  a  cup  and  sips  it  with  a  decided  relish.  I 
have  already  said  that  a  cup  of  coffee  of  this  kind,  prepared 
by  the  keeper,  is  usually  sold  for  one  cent  in  the  provinces ; 
but  often  it  is  prepared  by  the  drinker  himself  for  the  sake 
of  greater  economy. 

Such  is  the  picture,  then,  which  the  traveler  will  carry 
away  with  him  from  many  a  hearth  in  this  country :  several 
men  are  grouped  around  the  fire,  cooking  their  coffee ;  each 
has  his  long-handled  cup  which  he  manipulates  with  a  curious 
dexterity,  in  the  mean  time  talking  in  animated  gestures  of 
the  Treaty  of  Berlin  or  discussing  the  last  phase  of  the 
Great  Idea.  I  hold  that  those  old  fellows,  politicians  and 
even  philosophers,  were  of  a  similar  cast  and  had  similar 
ways.  A  political  ideal  is  still  a  part  of  the  intellectual  in- 
heritence  of  the  modern  Greek ;  it  belongs  to  him  as  much 
as  it  did  to  ancient  Plato.  I  should  say  that  these  people 
are  still  the  children,  rustic  though  genuine  children,  of  the 
father  of  the  Platonic  Republic.  They  have  not  his  notions 
exactly,  but  they  are  like  him ;  they  are  forever  building  the 
gorgeous  commonwealth  of  new  Hellas  in  the  pure  etherial 
blue  of  their  own  heavens.  What  man  will  not  take  pleasure 
in  looking  at  it,  moving  there  in  the  skies  amid  gold-bor- 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  139 

dered  clouds,  will  not  shout  applause  at  the  lofty  structure 
afloat,  crying  out:  Bring  it  down  to  the  earth  and  set  it 
firmly  on  eternal  rock,  if  ye  can!  Nay,  what  one  of  us 
would  not  give,  if  we  could  only  catch  the  rope,  a  good  pull 
to  help  fetch  it  down  into  solid  reality  ?  Poverty  may  cramp 
into  helpless  fetters,  writers  may  scoff  with  bitter  satire,  the 
Great  Powers  may  violently  repress,  still  the  Greek  is  going 
to  Constantinople,  if  not  by  land,  then  through  the  air. 

But  alas !  now  I  have  to  part  company  with  the  merchant 
Aristides  who  has  to  attend  to  business,  selling  his  wares 
from  door  to  door  and  haggling  with  the  women  of  the 
village.  I  would  be  glad  to  go  with  him  through  the  coun- 
try here,  which  he  knows  so  well,  if  I  could  wait  for  him ; 
still  I  have  promised  to  visit  him,  if  convenient,  at  Oropus 
and  see  the  worthy  schoolmaster  Aristoteles.  I  have  spoken 
so  much  about  Aristides  because  I  believe  him  to  be  a 
typical  man  of  his  class,  being  a  kind  of  mediatorial  charac- 
ter among  those  towns  on  his  route,  and  carrying  on  not 
only  a  commercial  but  also  an  intellectual  exchange.  For 
he  brings  them  not  goods  alone,  but  light.  He  may  some- 
times be  made  the  instrument  of  political  partisanship,  still 
every  throb  of  his  heail  beats  for  his  country.  After  he  had 
put  me  into  the  right  road,  we  parted  with  renewed  hopes  of 
seeing  each  other  at  Oropus. 

So  I  am  alone  again — yet,  I  maintain,  in  good  company ; 
with  package  slung  over  my  shoulder  and  heavy  staff  in  hand 
I  pass  down  the  road  to  Marcopoulo.  The  town  is,  accord- 
ing to  report,  "about  three  hours  distant ;  the  Greeks  measure 
distance  by  hours.  The  great  coat  is  no  longer  wet  and  un- 
wieldy; hunger  and  thirst  have  been  fully  satisfied;  the 
clouds  above  are  breaking  into  golden  shreds  which  race  joy- 


140  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

ously  through  the  sunbeams  and  attune  the  beholder  to  their 
sport ;  with  light-hearted  buoyancy  he  looks  off  before  him- 
self up  to  the  green  summits  over  which  he  is  to  pass.  This 
traveling  in  Greece  is  of  itself  intoxication,  were  there  no 
recinato. 

But  the  sunshine  was  of  short  duration.  Once  more  the 
clouds  began  to  gather  in  heavy  black  masses  and  dash 
against  the  tops  of  the  mountains ;  then  the  battle  in  Heaven 
opened  with  new  energy.  One  may  well  imagine  that  the 
scene  was  somewhat  similar  to  that  which  the  old  Greek  be- 
held over  these  ridged'  summits  and  wrought  into  fable ;  it 
was  one  form  of  the  combat  between  the  Giants  and  the 
Gods.  Zeus,  the  pure  ethereal  sky,  Diespiter,  the  father  of 
day,  is  surrounded  by  the  conflict  of  dark,  many-shaped 
monsters — of  Briareus  the  hundred-handed,  of  Typhon,  fire- 
spitting,  reaching  to  the  skies ;  but  in  the  end  the  father  of 
light  sends  them  down  to  gloomy  Tartarus  and  asserts  anew 
his  place  on  the  sunny  throne  of  Olympus. 

Thus  one  looks  at  the  angry  gathering  of  the  tempest  with 
its  many  shapes  and  transmutations,  and  he  can  not  help 
thinking  that  he  beholds  the  natural  source  of  the  highest 
principle  of  Greek  Mythology — the  conflicts  of  its  supreme 
God.  Off  there  in  the  sky  in  serene  light  Zeus  is  seated ; 
mostly  he  dwells  in  happy  repose,  but  sometimes  is  involved 
in  dire  struggle  with  the  gloomy  powers.  To-day  is  one  of 
his  gigantic  battles ;  he  is  the  cloud-compeller,  rejoicing  in 
the  swift  lightning,  he  is  the  heavy  thunderer,  as  the  Iliad 
often  calls  him,  indicating  his  realm  as  well  as  his  origin. 
Nature  may  be  taken  at  this  hour  as  the  symbol  of  conflict 
within  itself,  as  a  mirror  of  all  spiritual  conflicts.  Zeus  is 
fighting  the  old  dark  Gods,  the  mere  demons  of  chaos,  and 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  141 

will  put  them  down ;  then  he  will  bring  back  the  light  and 
become  the  deity  of  moral  order,  law,  and  institutions,  such 
as  he  was  worshipped  in  Greece.  Thus  his  conflicts  are 
made  the  types  of  the  conflicts  of  man,  of  struggles  external 
and  internal,  of  revolutions  moral  and  political. 

Greek  Mythology  is  an  utterance,  the  supreme  poetic 
utterance  of  the  race,  taken  from  Nature  directly  and  true 
to  her  in  the  highest  degree,  yet  always  reflecting  therein  a 
spiritual  visage.  Olympus  is  made  up  of  Gods,  who  from 
physical  have  become  also  internal  divinities  ;  they  have  been 
victorious  over  the  frantic  worship  of  Nature  whose  deities 
now  lie  in  Tartarus,  though  with  many  rebellious  attempts 
to  rise.  So  Apollo  is  still  the  sun,  was  once  the  outer  sun, 
till  he  became  the  inner  and  brighter  sun,  transferring  his 
seat  from  the  East  to  Delphi,  whither  I  begin  now  to  see 
this  path  of  ours  is  tending  through  many  sinuosities. 

But  we  are  still  here  in  the  mountains  amid  the  undecided 
battle  of  Zeus ;  in  other  words  it  is  raining,  raining  with 
pitiless  energy,  as  if  this  solitary  pedestrian  were  some  hun- 
dred-handed Titan  to  be  swept  down  into  Tartarus.  The 
great  coat  has  become  heavier  than  ever ;  there  is  no  tree  for 
shelter,  only  a  thick  growth  of  low  brushwood  can  be  seen ; 
there  is  not  a  single  farm  house  for  refuge  along  the  road. 
Clouds  collide  and  roll,  like  two  contending  dragons  twisted 
together,  right  over  me,  throwing  down  their  contents : 
sometimes  I  can  see  a  short  distance  before  me,  sometimes 
a  mountain  of  vapor  falls  upon  me  and  cuts  off  all  vision. 
Am  I  actually  then  some  earth-born  Titan,  that  I  arouse 
such  anger  in  the  breast  of  Zeus?  The  modest  conclusion 
is,  that  I  am  not,  though  you  may  think  I  am  mounting  up 
dizzily  near  to  his  throne  in  the  clouds. 


142  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

But  what  is  that  sound  off  to  one  side,  heard  very  dis- 
tinctly through  the  mist?  It  is  a  human  voice,  and,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  is  an  utterance  of  pain.  What  can  be  the 
matter  ?  I  stop  and  listen  but  it  ceases ;  then  I  pass  on 
through  the  driving  rain.  But  there !  I  hear  it  again,  off  to 
the  left;  it  is  a  child's  voice,  a  young  boy's  one  would  con- 
jecture. Very  disagreeable  it  is  to  go  out  of  the  road ;  yet 
that  voice  surety  has  the  tone  of  distress.  So  I  push  through 
the  wet  bushes  in  search  of  it — a  most  uncomfortable  busi- 
ness in  Greece,  and  savagely  discordant  with  the  Greek 
mood.  I  shout,  shout  in  high  Greek  through  the  storm ;  but 
the  piercing  cry  never  seems  to  penetrate  the  thick  walls  of 
vapor  shutting  me  in.  Again  the  voice  ceases  for  a  time  and 
I  return  to  the  beaten  track. 

I  go  straight  into  a  dense  cloud  which  has  collapsed  over 
the  road ;  this  road  is  now  filled  with  a  little  river  through 
which  I  wade  up  stream.  Rain,  Eain ;  the  wet  now  touches 
the  skin,  the  great  coat  has  its  full  capacity  of  water  and 
overflows  everywhere  at  the  edges  into  small  cataracts.  I 
stoop  under  a  bush ;  but  what  is  the  use,  the  bush  is  as  wet 
as  I  am,  with  pearly  cascades  spouting  from  the  tip  of  every 
leaf.  Such  is  traveling,  such  the  traveler ;  but  I  affirm  that 
the  Greek  mood  is  not  by  any  means  drowned  out  of  him, 
he  still  has  high  company,  the  very  highest — Jupiter  Tonans 
with  the  red  right  hand  is  his  next  neighbor. 

But  there  is  one  disturbance,  I  hear  again  that  wretched 
voice  which  distresses  me.  Still  I  shall  not  stop ;  one  may 
be  excused  for  not  being  inclined  to  benevolence  with  such  an 
overcoat.  But  the  dolorous  ciy  continues,  coming  out  of 
the  mist ;  it  may  be  some  human  being  who  is  worse  off  than 
even  I  am.  So  I  start  after  it  once  more  through  the  drip- 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  143 

ping  brushwood,  not  at  all  in  a  good  humor  with  the  voice 
which  is  spoiling  the  Greek  mood  far  more  than  the  showers 
of  Jove.  But  listen !  in  the  opposite  direction  on  the  right 
side  of  the  road  can  be  heard  another  and  similar  voice  from 
the  vaporous  distance ;  it  has  the  same  wail,  it  may  be  an 
answer  to  the  first.  Are  these  people  then  all  in  grief, 
shepherds  perchance,  wailing  over  the  mountains?  It  is  im- 
possible to  help  so  many  of  them,  therefore  the  just  tourist 
will  lean  toward  impartiality  and  help  none — so  onward 
through  the  falling  water-walls !  But  the  mystery  of  those 
voices  coming  out  of  the  fog — what  can  it  mean?  what  can 
it  mean? 

Still  up  the  mountain  the  road  passes,  higher  and  higher ; 
now  the  heavy  rain  slackens  and  one  comes  into  the  region 
of  pure  fog  with  a  continuous  light  drizzle.  One  winds 
around  peaks  and  gets  faint  views  into  tremendous  chasms 
beneath,  wrapped  in  magnifying  mists ;  it  is  the  world  of 
dewy  vapors  and  undefined  shapes.  Peasants  I  find  cut- 
ting brushwood  up  here.  How  far  to  Marcopoulo?  One 
hour.  On,  on,  the  distance  is  not  long;  patience,  thou 
much-enduring,  wet  skinned  man !  Fill  thy  imagination 
with  antique  clear  visions  and  forget  this  outer  foggy  world ; 
think  of  old  Ulysses,  the  long-sufferer,  who  in  the  brine  of 
the  sea  was  tossed  about  by  a  storm,  clinging  to  a  billet  of 
wood  for  two  days,  and  was  rewarded  on  shore  by  seeing 
the  fairest  of  earthly  maidens,  that  sweet  Phaeacian  girl 
Nausicaa.  Some  such  shape  may  be  waiting  for  thee,  when 
thou  comest  again  into  sunlight. 

Thus  the  traveler  in  Greece  passes  through  fierce  storms 
and  dense  fogs,  unconquerable,  unassailable ;  descending 
the  rock-strewn  slope  he  leaps  from  stone  to  stone,  with  an 


144  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

occasional  slip,  but  always  accompanied  by  a  bright  image 
or  perchance  by  a  God  who  will  help  him  up  if  he  falls.  If 
he  have  brought  the  material  along,  he  can  weave  many  a 
radiant  fabric  out  of  ancient  lore,  as  he  tramps  away,  up 
hill  and  down  over  the  wet  rough  thoroughfare.  Now  he  de- 
scends, and  the  fog  lifts ;  passing  by  a  little  church  he 
stands  on  the  ridge  and  beholds  the  long  sweep  of  the  moun- 
tain slanting  into  the  green  valley.  Lying  on  the  slope  just 
below  him  is  Marcopoulo  breaking  suddenly  into  view ;  its 
chimneys  are  sending  up  thin  curls  of  bluish  smoke  which 
spread  out  at  the  top  and  join  the  clouds.  There  are  bright 
fires  in  those  hearths ;  the  mere  thought  sends  hope  and 
gladness  into  the  heart  of  the  dripping  traveler. 

I  was  not  'slow  in  reaching  the  khan  or  Greek  inn,  which 
was  pointed  out  to  me  by  a  rude-looking  but  friendly  Alban- 
ian ;  this,  too,  is  an  Albanian  town,  though  the  inn-keeper 
is  a  Greek.  I  drank  a  raki  with  my  informant  at  the  usual 
rate  of  one  cent  a  glass,  and  then  sat  down  on  a  bench  in 
my  heavy  wet  garments.  It  was  a  most  dismal  place  for  a 
rainy  day — dark,  damp,  chilly,  uncanny.  The  bench  on 
which  I  sat  was  soon  covered  with  little  streams  of  water, 
whose  fountain  head  was  my  overcoat,  finding  their  way 
down  the  grooves,  and  filling  the  worm  holes.  I  can  say 
with  truth  that  I  was  uncomfortable ;  in  a  fit  of  sinful  weak- 
ness I  was  quite  ready  to  curse  all  traveling,  and  harbored 
for  an  instant  the  thought  of  giving  up  the  great  tour  of  Greece 
afoot  and  alone.  As  I  look  back,  I  now  consider  that  to 
have  been  a  decisive  moment,  for  just  then  the  landlord 
came  and  asked  me :  Would  you  like  to  have  a  fire  ? 

He  took  me  to  his  own  blazing  hearth  around  which  the 
children  of  the  household  were  plajdng — bright-eyed,  dark- 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  145 

haired  little  ones,  full  of  impudence,  merriment  and  mock- 
ery. It  is  true  that  no  small  portion  of  the  smoke  refused 
to  pass  out  of  the  room  through  the  chimney ;  but  who  can 
describe  the  luxury  of  that  fire,  the  old  fire  in  the  hearth,  on 
the  evening  of  a  chill  rainy  day?  I  sat  down  before  it  and 
dried  myself ;  soon  the  waters  of  the  wet  garments  began  to 
rise  up  around  me  in  great  clouds  .of  vapor  somewhat  like 
those  of  the  mountains.  I  sat  there  and  steamed,  as  if  I 
were  some  aqueous  shape  and  were  boiling  in  my  own  ket- 
tle ;  no  aroma  of  incense  or  of  burnt-offering  could  be  more 
delightful  than  that  steam  as  it  ascended  to  the  nostrils. 
The  old  fire-place  of  boyhood  came  back,  with  the  merry 
sports  of  the  long  winter  evening ;  but  that  was  without  the 
luxury  of  this  exhalation  wrapping  me  in  my  own  clouds. 
Now  I  wish  to  be  only  a  traveler  and  to  travel  on  rainy 
days. 

The  landlord  made  the  first  preparation  for  supper:  he 
placed  an  ample  pot  of  beans  over  the  fire.  The  mother 
was  absent  on  a  visit ;  the  father  went  out  to  his  wineshop, 
and  a  pretty  Greek  girl  entered  to  tend  to  the  children ;  jet 
sparkling  eyes,  fair  features,  gentle  innocence  were  there,, 
yet  with  flashes  of  sadness  through  her  young  face  that  stole 
down  into  the  emotion  of  the  beholder.  She  was  called 
Euphrosyne,  that  is  cheerfulness,  and  moreover,  the  name 
of  one  of  the  Graces.  I  could  not  succeed  in  getting  the 
young  Grace  to  talk  much ;  she  was  shy  and  doubtless  un- 
derstood very  little  of  my  high  Greek,  though  I  toned  it 
down  as  well  as  I  could  with  the  popular  Romaic. 

But  those  children  were  not  sad — three  of  them  together 
capering  around  the  bright  hearth.  They  were  soon  ac- 
quainted, nay,  familiar  with  the  stranger  and  began  to  play 


146  A  Walk  in  Hella*. 

him  little  pranks.  Euphrosyne,  herself  hardly  more  than  a 
child,  could  not  restrain  them  but  had  to  laugh  along  when 
they  tipped  him  over  as  he  sat  on  the  three-legged  stool 
enveloped  in  the  steam  of  his  garments.  Their  Greek  nature 
showed  itself  in  their  little  Aristophanic  mockeries ;  I  could 
say  no  word,  make  no  movement,  without  their  throwing  it 
back  into  my  face  in  caricature.  Particularly  Zacharias,  a 
little  fellow  of  four  years,  showed  his  inborn  genius  in  mock- 
ing my  broken  Greek,  then  all  three  would  repeat  what  he 
said  in  a  chorus  of  infant  laughter. 

Well,  what  of  it?  you  ask.  Do  not  all  children  do  the 
same  ?  It  may  be  so,  but  I  was  unwilling  to  entertain  such 
a  thought.  You  must  recollect  I  was,  and  you  ought  now  to 
be,  in  Greece,  hence  I  could  see  and  you  must  see  in  these 
children  the  infant  germs  of  those  supremest  merry-makers 
and  mockers  of  the  world — Aristophanes  and  Lucian.  Into 
such  ancient  shapes  the  little  ones  grow  before  me  while  I  sit 
here  at  the  fire,  with  no  pleasant  vapor  rising  now,  for  the 
garments  are  completely  dry. 

The  mother  comes  home ;  it  is  time  for  supper ;  I  con- 
gratulate myself  on  the  prospect  of  taking  a  meal  with  a 
Greek  family.  The  host  was  going  to  give  me  a  place  at 
one  side,  all  to  myself,  but  I  asked  the  favor  of  eating  with 
the  wife  and  children,  and  he  gave  his  consent  with  manifest 
pleasure.  First  a  large  mat  was  spread  out  on  the  floor 
upon  which  we  ah1  sat  down  in  a  circle ;  a  stool  was  offered 
to  me  as  a  special  honor  to  the  guest,  but  I  refused  it  and 
took  my  place  on  the  mat  with  the  others.  The  table  was 
brought  and  placed  between  us;  it  was  circular,  without 
support,  and  lay  flat  on  the  floor.  Thus  we  were  squatted 
around  it;  the  rest  took  off  their  shoes  as  they  sat  down, 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  147 

and  crossed  their  legs.  I  followed  their  example.  Stock- 
ing feet,  nay  stockingless  feet  appeared  there  at  the  table, 
while  we  lapped  our  limbs  over  like  so  many  tailors.  The 
position  was  not  an  easy  one  for  me,  the  sartorius  muscle 
soon  began  to  twitch  and  squirm  with  pain  at  his  unaccus- 
tomed duty. 

The  large  crock  of  bean-soup  was  placed  upon  the  table, 
redolent  with  oil  and  steam,  sending  up  a  fragrance  not  un- 
grateful to  the  hungry  traveler.  Kalos  oriste — they  all 
muttered,  crossing  themselves  several  times ;  this  was  their 
way  of  saying  grace,  as  the  landlord  explained.  I  repeated 
the  same  words  and  went  through  the  crucial  motions  too, 
rather  mechanically  I  think.  I  did  not  want  to  excite  any 
religious  questioning  again,  as  I  had  unfortunately  done  at 
Marathon.  My  special  distinction  was  to  have  a  plate  of 
soup  all  to  myself ;  the  others  dipped  freely  into  the  com- 
mon dish.  Our  bill  of  fare  was  as  follows :  good  black 
bread,  very  palatable  and  nutritious,  crumbled  into  the 
bean-soup ;  cured  fish  from  Constantinople ;  goat's  cheese ; 
but  the  supreme  delicacy  of  the  meal  was  a  species  of  clam 
taken  from  the  neighboring  Euripus,  which  was  roasted  in 
the  hot  ashes  of  the  hearth  and  flavored  with  a  drop  of  lem- 
on juice.  Finally,  let  it  not  be  forgotten,  for  we  did  not 
forget  it:  a  huge  demijohn  of  recinato  stood  at  the  side  of 
the  host,  its  delightful  gurgle  would  always  come  to  our 
assistance  and  wash  down  the  most  obstinate  mouthful. 

Besides  myself  there  was  present  another  guest,  a  Greek 
from  Thebes,-  a  jolly  old  fellow,  in  a  rather  besmirched 
fustanella ;  he  took  his  place  on  the  mat  bare-footed,  having 
removed  his  red  moccasins  at  the  door,  according  to  custom. 
He  sat  next  to  the  hearth,  and  while  doing  full  jmstice  to  his 


148  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

* 

supper,  he  found  time  to  superintend  the  roasting  of  the 
clams.  Varvouillya  everybody  familiarly  called  him.  I  ad- 
mired and  highly  praised  his  expertness  in  his  present  occu- 
pation, whereat  he  exerted  anew  both  skill  and  speed,  of 
which  I  derived  the  chief  benefit.  Then  there  was  the  host 
with  the  demijohn  at  his  side,  a  man  naturally  of  a  jovial 
temperament,  now  becoming  more  jovial  with  the  minutes. 
The  wife  placed  herself  a  little  to  one  side  with  the  children, 
squatting  like  the  rest  of  us ;  she  was  very  quiet,  though  I 
insisted  on  drinking  repeatedly  to  the  health  of  our  hostess. 
She,  too,  probably  did  not  understand  my  Greek  very  well ; 
certainly  I  did  not  understand  hers.  The  husband  excused 
her,  saying  she  spoke  a  peculiar  dialect ;  but  he  would  never 
fail  to  answer  the  toast  himself,  with  a  full  bumper.  He 
spoke  Greek  well;  he  had  been  a  student  of  one  of  the 
Greek  gymnasiums,  and  had  read  the  ancient  classics. 

So  we  sat  there  around  the  low  table,  and  feasted  and 
chatted  with  many  a  merry  dash  at  waspish  old  Time,  pro- 
posing healths  to  one  another  with  lofty  compliments,  not 
failing  to  drink  long  prosperity  to  our  dear  Hellas  and  dear 
America.  The  host  became  illuminated,  he  dropped  un- 
accountably his  native  Greek  tongue  and  insisted  upon  talk- 
ing Italian  with  me — a  most  unintelligible  broken  Italian,  to 
which  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  get  no  clew ;  either  he  or  I 
or  both  of  us  had  become  dazed.  Still  Varvouillya  kept 
raking  the  clams  out  of  the  hot  ashes  and  we  ate  them ; 
while  the  host  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  replenished  our 
mugs  with  recinato  from  the  demijohn ;  between  the  twain  I 
sat  and  received  from  both  directions.  Meantime  the  chil- 
dren had  finished  their  supper ;  they  nodded,  rolled  over  on 
the  floor  beside  the  hearth,  and  were  soon  asleep.  The  host 


From  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo.  149 

talked  louder,  faster,  in  a  still  more  unintelligible  Italian; 
Varvouillya  raked  out  the  last  of  the  clams ;  but  there  was 
still  recinato  in  that  demijohn. 

The  wife,  who,  if  I  had  read  her  aright,  had  begun  to  grow 
a  little  sulky  at  our  prolonged  and  ever-increasing  festivity, 
now  interfered,  she  declared  that  she  wished  to  retire,  and 
as  this  was  her  bed-room  as  well  as  parlor  and  kitchen,  we 
had  to  vacate.  Varvouillya  slipped  into  his  moccasins  and 
slid  off  into  the  darkness  somewhither,  like  a  bat;  I  was 
shown  to  my  chamber  by  the  merry  host  who  had  grown 
very  affectionate  and  embraced  me  with  an  unexpected  Mss, 
not  uncommon  in  Greece,  as  we  parted  for  the  night. 

It  requires  a  little  touch  of  anger  against  future  genera- 
tions to  be  a  writer,  and  I  felt  in  altogether  too  good  a 
humor  to  take  even  a  note  that  evening ;  the  wise  and  fool- 
ish things  said  and  done  must  now  be  handed  over  to 
oblivion.  But  as  I  lay  in  bed  and  reflected  on  the  battle  of 
the  day,  I  concluded  that  after  many  fluctuations,  after  tem- 
porary defeats  even,  it  had  ended  in  a  glorious  victory.  In 
the  forenoon  I  had  been  assailed  with  no  little  energy,  but  I 
was  fortunate  in  having  valiant  Aristides  as  a  fellow-soldier 
at  my  side ;  in  the  afternoon  the  enemy,  enveloping  me  in 
thick  clouds  had  attacked  me  alone  from  all  quarters  within 
and  without ;  still  I  had  won  the  day.  On  the  whole  this 
was  my  Marathon;  I  felt  that  henceforth  I  would  pass 
through  Greece  from  end  to  end  in  a  kind  of  triumphal 
march.  List !  the  rain  is  now  beating  on  the  roof,  still  the 
elements  are 'angry,  to-morrow  threatens  to  be  again  a  day 
of  battle;  but  to-night  at  least  I  shall  not  borrow  any 
trouble. 


TALK  SIXTH. 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo. 

As  I  rose  in  the  morning  and  looked  out  of  the  window, 
every  appearance  indicated  that  I  was  weather-bound.  It 
had  rained  all  night ;  though  the  rain  had  ceased  falling  just 
at  that  moment,  the  clouds  looked  leaden  and  surcharged, 
and  flew  by  the  window  with  a  sullen  threatening.  I  did 
not  care  to  venture  another  day  like  the  preceding;  my 
Greek  mood  might  under  too  great  stress,  break  down. 
Nor  could  I  proceed,  if  I  would ;  the  streams  had  doubtless 
risen  to  such  a  height  that  they  were  impassible.  The  nature 
of  the  Greek  rainfall  had  often  been  told  me  by  way  of 
warning:  a  heavy  shower  descends;  the  brooks,  previously 
a  mere  bed  of  dry  rocks,  become  suddenly  mountain  torrents 
which  cannot  be  crossed  by  man  or  beast.  Nor  are  there 
any  bridges  worth  mentioning  in  Greece ;  indeed  any  ordi- 
nary bridge  would  be  apt  to  be  swept  away  in  the  first 
storm. 

It  is  winter,  but  winter  in  this  country  means  the  rainy 
season.  In  the  valleys  very  little  snow  falls,  and  when  it 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo.  151 

does  fall,  it  lasts  usually  but  a  portion  of  a  clay.  Still  there 
is  hardly  a  point  in  Greece  from  which  you  cannot  see  the 
snow  upon  the  mountains,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours 
you  can  reach  the  snow  point.  It  is  possible  in  a  single  ex- 
cursion to  pass  through  the  four  seasons  at  certain  times  of 
the  year.  I  recollect  a  day's  walk  which  I  once  took  in  the 
Parnassian  region ;  below  in  the  Krissaean  plane  at  the  level 
of  the  sea  there  was  a  tropical  vegetation  in  its  full  luxuri- 
ance ;  at  Krissa  garden  vegetables  grew  in  the  open  air ;  at 
Delphi,  still  higher  in  the  ascent,  these  same  vegetables 
would  no  longer  grow,  and  the  olive  ceased  to  nourish, 
though  it  quite  reached  that  point ;  about  Arachoba,  and  a 
little  above  it,  the  growth  of  the  grape  had  attained  its  high- 
est limit  and  the  heat  of  summer  is  scarcely  felt ;  at  the  Kal- 
yvia  in  a  table  land  on  the  Parnassus  the  hardier  grains  only 
would  thrive,  and  people  would  not  remain  there  during  the 
winter  on  account  of  the  severity  of  the  cold ;  still  higher 
were  the  pine  woods,  and  finally  the  unbroken  surface  of  the 
snow.  Thus  the  Greek  had  the  advantage  of  all  climates  at 
his  very  door,  and  this  variety  of  nature  was  stamped  upon 
his  varied  and  versatile  character.  Somewhat  of  the  like  in- 
stinct in  our  own  country  is  seen  in  the  vast  summer  migra- 
tions of  the  people ;  but  to  attain  the  variety  of  one  Greek 
day,  we  have  often  to  travel  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
miles. 

On  looking  around  the  room,  sundry  indications  of  the 
tastes  and  customs  of  the  people  become  manifest.  Ancient 
heirlooms  a"re  here — weapons  of  various  kinds,  garments 
decorated  in  a  sort  of  barbaric  splendor  with  gold  tinsel  and 
strongly  contrasting  colors.  It  was  here,  I  think,  that  I  saw 
the  likenesses  of  King  Otho  and  Queen  Amalia  in  rudely 


152  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

colored  prints  suspended  on  the  wall.  You  may  know  that 
these  persons  were  the  former  king  and  queen  of  Greece 
who,  having  been  expelled,  were  succeeded  by  the  present 
sovereigns,  George  and  Olga.  I  found  still  among  the 
Greeks  in  the  provinces  a  lively  feeling  of  gratitude  for  their 
former  rulers,  and  many  persons,  though  having  no  dislike 
for  the  present  dynasty,  thought  that  the  previous  sover- 
eigns had  been  treated  with  gross  injustice.  The  change 
was  repeatedly  declared  to  have  been  a  revolution  brought 
about  by  the  politicans  and  schemers  at  Athens,  backed  by 
the  intrigues  of  certain  European  powers.  Still  the  Greek 
people  as  a  whole  have  sanctioned  the  result,  and  it  must  be 
confessed  that  King  Otho  with  his  Bavarian  tendencies  had 
succeeded  in  making  himself  very  unacceptable  to  the  more 
aspiring  portion  of  the  Greeks. 

There  are  no  utensils  for  washing  in  the  room,  nor  any 
water,  but  there  is  plent}T  outside,  for  it  has  rained  all  night ; 
so  there  is  no  use  of  despairing  of  an  ablution.  I  go  down 
the  stairs  into  the  yard ;  the  little  serving-girl,  pretty 
Euphrosyne,  appears  with  a  tin  cup  that  has  several  holes  in 
the  bottom,  out  of  which  the  water  issues  in  convenient 
jets ;  she  partly  pours  and  partly  holds  those  jets  over  the 
hands  of  the  guest.  Zacharias  is  also  present  and  still  keeps 
up  his  mimicry;  whatever  I  say  or  do  he  instinctively 
imitates  with  a  ludicrous  twist  of  the  mouth.  The  family 
have  already  breakfasted,  but  enough  is  left  for  me,  and 
more — for  the  children  come  again  to  the  table  and  with 
great  freedom  take  hold  along  with  me.  I  am  sure  I  enjoy- 
ed their  presence  and  I  shared  gladly  with  them  all  that  was 
there.  At  only  one  thing  I  rebelled :  it  was  when  Zacharias 
took  the  knife  from  my  plate  and  began  scraping  the  mud 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo.  153 

from  his  shoes.  It  was  so  muddy  out  of  doors,  he  said. 
Three  small  children  keep  the  mother  busy  without  attend- 
ing to  scrupulous  niceties  of  house-keeping.  A  simple 
economy  reigns  throughout  the  household ;  a  hole  in  the 
wall,  besides  being  a  window,  serves  as  cupboard,  knife  box, 
provision  chest,  and  for  miscellaneous  articles. 

I  would  like  to  continue  my  journey,  but  the  host  tells  me 
that  it  is  impossible  on  account  of  the  freshet,  and  that  in 
particular,  there  is  a  large  stream,  the  Asopus,  which  can 
not  be  forded  till  the  waters  have  run  out.  He  might  be  in- 
terested in  detaining  me,  though  what  he  said  seemed  very 
reasonable ;  but  Varvouillya,  the  Theban,  who  also  was  ea- 
ger to  go  forward  to  Chalcis,  confirms  emphatically  the 
statements  of  the  host.  So  both  of  us  resolved  to  stay  till  to- 
morrow, and  then  make  the  journey  together.  A  day, 
therefore,  a  rainy  day  at  Marcopoulo  is  our  destiny,  for  a 
passing  shower  drives  us  from  the  yard,  where  we  are  dis- 
cussing the  matter,  into  the  wineshop. 

A  number  of  Albanians  entered,  dressed  in  their  coarse 
kilts,  with  bandanna  closely  wrapped  about  the  head ;  they 
look  wonderingly,  half  suspiciously  out  of  the  corners  of 
their  eyes ;  yet  there  they  sit  and  say  nothing,  content  to  gaze 
and  puff  at  their  paper  cigarettes.  The  traveler  will  seek  on 
a  rainy  day  to  find  out  something  about  their  ways,  their  life, 
their  consciousness.  Now  one  of  the  main  tests  of  the  char- 
acter and  abiding  worth  of  a  people  is  the  interest  they  take 
in  their  own  origin  and  that  of  their  race.  Do  these  people 
know  whence  they  came  ?  I  asked  them ;  they  knew  of  Alban- 
ia, and  that  their  ancestors  had  emigrated  thence  into  Greece. 
But  when?  The  most  ready  man  of  the  company  answered, 
that  the  emigration  took  place  about  the  time  of  the  Greek 


154  A  Walk  in  Hell  a*. 

Revolution,  but  that  they  or  their  parents  knew  nothing  of 
it.  But  it  is  usually  placed  by  historians  far  back  in  the 
middle  ages,  and  not  fifty  years  ago.  I  tell  them  the  fact, 
whereat  they  are  surprised  ;  but  their  comprehension  of  five 
centuries  does  not  seem  to  differ  much  from  that  of  half  a 
century. 

A  still  deeper  test  of  the  inherent  worth  and  vitality  of  a 
people  is,  whether  they  keep  alive  the  memory  of  their  great 
men,  reverencing  them  with  their  deities.  This  remarkable 
fact  came  to  light,  that  the  Albanians  in  Greece  still  cherish 
the  traditions  concerning  Scanderbeg,  their  great  national 
hero,  in  fact,  the  only  man  of  universal  fame  that  Albania 
has  produced.  His  heroic  defence  of  his  country  and  of  his 
faith  against  the  Turks,  survives  in  the  memory  of  his  people 
after  more  than  four  centuries.  Scanderbeg,  however,  did 
not  succeed — his  country  was  subjugated,  yet  his  name  and 
deeds  endure,  even  though  he  was  unsuccessful.  The  hero, 
the  great  national  man,  must  always  rank  next  to  the  Gods 
of  a  people ;  he  is  veritably  the  highest  embodiment  of  the 
divine  principle  on  earth,  visibly  appearing  to  the  men  of  his 
nation  and  race,  and  realizing  what  is  deepest  within  them. 
Their  yoke,  too,  he  must  bear  with  bitter  suffering,  their 
struggles  he  must  endure  for  the  sake  of  all ;  what  they  are 
dimly  and  incompletely,  he  must  be  clearly  and  perfectly, 
making  himself  a  mirror,  as  it  were,  in  which  they  for  the 
first  time  may  fully  behold  themselves.  It  will  be  a  calami- 
tous hour,  when  they  forget  him;  one  may  affirm,  it  will  be 
the  hour  of  their  disappearance,  for  their  ideal,  their  essence 
is  then  lost.  So  it  will  delight  the  traveler  to  find  that,  in 
these  rude  huts,  far  away  from  the  primitive  home  of  his 
people,  Scanderbeg  is  still  alive  in  his  deeds  and  example. 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo.  155 

After  having  talked  a  while  and  at  frequent  intervals  gone 
to  the  door  to  look  at  the  weather,  I  took  out  my  note-book, 
to  beguile  the  tedious  minutes,  and  began  jotting  down  some 
little  incidents,  for  it  never  passed  out  of  mind  that  I  might 
desire  to  tell  them  to  you  who  are  now  present.  My  Greek 
host,  at  all  times  full  of  curiosity,  looked  over  my  shoulder, 
and,  though  he  could  not  read  the  strange  characters,  he 
nevertheless  knew  what  I  was  about.  "I  see  that  you  are 
going  to  write  a  book  on  Marcopoulo,"  says  he;  "come  and 
take  a  glass  of  wine,  so  that  you  can  write  better ;  I  wish  you 
to  put  down  in  it  all  my  family — wife,  children  and  myself." 
Therewith  he  brought  me  a  glass  of  his  best  recinato,  which 
he  had  hitherto  kept  back ;  I  promised  that  I  would  obey  his 
request — and  I  have  tried  to  do  so,  as  you  can  now  testify. 
It  was  not  the  only  time  that  such  a  demand  was  made  upon 
me.  I  sat  down  once  by  chance  before  a  house  which  had  a 
small,  rude  balcony,  the  pride  of  the  owner;  first,  two  wo- 
men came  out  and  looked  at  me  with  a  staring  wonder ;  then 
they  called  two  men  from  within,  when  one  of  them  spoke 
down  to  me:  Put  my  balcony  into  your  book.  Even  the 
peasant  has  some  vague  notion  about  the  immense  amount 
of  writing  to  which  his  country  has  given  rise,  and  he  natur- 
ally suspects  every  person  who  passes  through  as  intending 
to  be  guilty  of  a  book.  It  is  a  suspicion  only  too  often  well- 
grounded,  alack-a-day!  I  did  not  escape  it,  notwithstand- 
ing the  look  of  innocence  which  I  tried  to  put  on.  I  might 
as  well  confess  the  truth  now — I  was  guilty,  murder  will  out, 
be  it  the  murder  of  a  book. 

But  the  shower  passes  over  and  permits  me  to  leave  the 
wineshop ;  I  go  out  to  see  the  ruins  of  a  temple  supposed  to 
be  that  of  Amphiraus.  Exactly  why  he  should  be  worship- 


156  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

ped  in  this  locality  is  not  easy  to  tell.  Amphiraus  was  a 
hero  and  prophet ;  he  combined  the  courage  of  the  one  with 
the  foresight  of  the  other.  He  stands  in  legend  as  the  type 
of  a  man  who  foresees  the  fatal  act  of  his  people  and  tries  to 
prevent  it;  but  when  he  cannot  prevent  it,  he  goes  with 
them  and  perishes,  the  victim  of  his  own  prescience  on  the 
one  hand,  of  his  sense  of  duty  on  the  other.  He  was  one  of 
the  seven  chiefs  in  the  expedition  against  Thebes,  whose  un- 
happy termination  he  foretold ;  but  he  had  a  power  over  him 
stronger  than  his  prophetic  power — it  was  that  fatal  neck- 
lace, which,  coupled  with  his  own  deepest  instinct,  we  may 
add,  drove  him  to  the  war.  The  chieftains  were  defeated 
and  mostly  perished;  Amphiraus,  beloved  of  Jupiter  the 
Supreme  God,  with  horse  and  chariot  was  swallowed  up  in  a 
sudden  opening  of  the  earth,  where  he  swayed  long  as  a 
prophet,  and  was  consulted  by  the  people.  This  whole  re- 
gion on  the  borders  between  Attica  and  Beotia  seems  to 
have  been  one  of  the  chief  localities  of  his  worship ;  off  yon- 
der over  the  hills  not  far  from  Tanagra  the  exact  spot  called 
Harma  or  the  Chariot  was  anciently  pointed  out  where  he 
disappeared. 

Therefore,  if  we  take  Amphiraus  as  some  form  of  the 
Divine  which  the  old  Greek  dwellers  along  these  slopes 
adored,  we  may  say  that  this  was  the  idea  in  their  souls ;  an 
heroic  individual  gifted  with  foresight,  combining  in  one 
grand  endowment  both  courage  and  prevision,  who,  foresee- 
ing death  as  the  consequence  of  his  deed,  nevertheless 
marched  bravely  forward  and  met  it.  Assuredly  a  manifes- 
tation of  the  Divine  is  this ;  to  be  able  to  subordinate  death 
to  duty.  Every  human  being,  therefore,  may  with  reverence 
tread  over  these  stones,  may  have  sympathy  and  admiration 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo.  157 

for  the  people  who  once  walked  up  this  enclosure  with  wor- 
ship for  such  a  principle  in  their  hearts ;  nay,  he  may  wor- 
ship here  himself,  if  worship  be  to  him  anything  else  besides 
orthodoxy.  Amphiraus,  beloved  of  Jupiter,  was  not  de- 
stroyed, though  received  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth  by  the 
God ;  long  he  existed  for  the  people,  showing  heroism  in  his 
example  and  uttering  wisdom  in  his  oracle ;  still  he  lives  for 
the  traveler  looking  only  on  the  rubbish  and  ruins  of  his 
temple.  His  conflict  is  one  that  will  exist  as  long  as  man 
exists ;  it  is  based  on  some  question  of  this  kind :  Is  life 
then  the  highest,  or  are  there  other  interests  in  this  world 
higher  than  life  ?  Very  unwillingly  do  we  pawn  the  precious 
jewel  of  existence ;  but  Amphiraus  did  it,  did  it  with  calm 
foresight ;  hence  in  the  olden  time  he  was  both  a  hero  and  a 
prophet,  nor  can  I  see  why  he  is  not  the  same  still.  So  the 
Greek  came  in  his  perplexity  to  this  spot  in  order  to  get  the 
answer  of  Amphiraus  concerning  some  important  matter  of 
conduct,  of  vocation,  of  patriotism.  I  cannot  think  that 
the  old  seer  gave  any  other  response  than  this :  Look  at  my 
deed  as  thou  approachest  my  shrine ;  foresee  and  then  die  if 
such  be  thy  duty. 

From  the  temple  I  am  driven  back  to  the  wineshop  by  the 
brewing  of  a  new  storm,  whose  huge  brewery,  cloud- wrapped 
in  the  heavens,  rises  up  yonder  over  the  sea.  The  day  be- 
gins to  grow  monotonous,  so  do  I ;  my  disappointment  will 
be  great  if  I  do  not  succeed  in  vividly  reflecting  this  monoto- 
ny in  my  talk.  I  hope  to  be  able  to  make  you  all  yawn,  and 
thus  to  impart  to  you  the  spirit  of  the  occasion.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  around  the  house  moodily  and  see  it 
rain,  or,  when  the  rain  slackens  a  little,  to  look  off  eagerly 
into  the  clouds  for  clear  weather.  The  feeling  of  desolation 


158  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

is  increased  by  these  Albanians  who  straggle  into  the  sombre 
wineshop,  draw  down  the  head  into  a  shaggy  capote  and  say 
never  a  word.  A  Greek  lawyer  temporarily  stopping  here 
drops  in,  and  we  all  wake  up  again  in  a  lively  discussion 
about  Takos. 

It  is   obvious  that  the  chief  incident  of  modern  Greek 
history  held  in  remembrance  in  this  town  is  the  fate  of  the 
captured  lords  and  of  their  captors,  whom  our  narrative  left 
some  time  ago  on  the  road  to  Marathon.     Takos  the  brigand 
chieftain  passed  through  Marcopoulo  with  his  prisoners  and 
is  said  to  have  met  with  no  unfriendly  reception  from  its 
people.     Before  me  some  of  them  now  are,  some  of  the  very 
men  who  received  him,  and  the  affair  is  discussed  with  as 
much  palpitating  warmth  as  at  the  time  of  its  occurence. 
The  object  of  the  chieftain  seems  to  be  clouded  in  no  little 
mystery;  just  now  the  question  springs  up  and  is  debated 
with  vehemence,  whether  Takos  wanted  amnesty,  or  merely 
ransom  for  his  prisoners ;  the  two  educated  persons  of  our 
party,  the  lawyer  and  the  host,  take  opposite  sides.     The 
constitutional    question,    whether    the    state    could    grant 
amnesty    to   a   criminal   before    his    condemnation,   winds 
subtly  through  the  discussion.     It  is  also  intimated  that  the 
whole  affair  was  simply  a  political  move,  and  that  Takos  was 
hired  by  the  enemies  of  the  ministry  then  in  power  to  make 
a  diversion  in  their  favor.     So  the  disputants  continue  to 
weave  about  the  event  many  intricate  conjectures  till  the 
matter  itself  becomes  lost  in  its  own  entanglements. 

Far  more  interesting  are  the  manifold  myths  which  have      \ 
spun  themselves  around  this  occurrence ;  the  old  mythologic 
vein   has  been   made  to  pulsate   with   new   activity,   while 
popular  poetry  has  seized  the  subject  and  wrought  the  tragic 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo.  159 

story  of  Takos  into  many  a  strain  now  sung  over  these  hills. 
It  is  indeed  a  dramatic  theme  in  its  development  and  fatal 
end,  exciting  in  the  highest  degree  the  imagination  of  the 
people.  Just  before  me  an  old  but  lively  peasant  can 
restrain  himself  no  longer,  but  breaks  into  the  cobwebs  of 
the  discussion  and  with  wild  gesticulations  goes  through  all 
the  incidents  of  the  affair,  showing  what  the  lordies  did  and 
what  Takos  did  in  those  last  dire  moments  of  death.  He 
springs  about  on  the  floor  of  the  wineshop,  stirring  its 
ancient  dust  into  wreathing  clouds,  as  he  represents  the 
various  positions  of  the  conflict  and  turns  red  in  the  face 
with  loud  talking  and  violent  exertion. 

Such  is  the  drama  which  this  rustic  actor  tried  to  play, 
rudely  boisterous,  though  in  deep  earnestness,  and  of  which 
there  is  everwhere  the  most  lively  recollection.  The  bold- 
ness of  the  crime,  the  swift  punishment  of  most  of  the  per- 
petrators, and  the  suffering  of  innocent  people  drawn  into 
the  fateful  net  of  guilt,  have  gone  deep  into  the  very  souls 
of  the  peasantry.  One  always  thinks  of  a  classic  compari- 
son in  Greece ;  I  cannot  help  comparing  the  present  feeling 
in  regard  to  this  event  to  the  feeling  which  lies  back  of  the 
Odyssey,  and  always  bursts  up  into  its  calm  sunny  narrative 
whenever  it  mentions  the  crime  and  punishment  of  Aegis- 
thus,  the  murderer  of  Agamemnon.  That  wretch  who  in  the 
face  of  all  Greece  had  committed  the  bold  and  for  a  time 
successful  act  of  villany  against  her  leader  and  most  con- 
spicuous man,  was  finally  punished  by  the  son  Orestes  in  a 
manner  at  once  startling  and  just.  The  wrong  and  its 
retribution  seem  to  have  left  upon  the  old  Homeric  Greeks 
the  one  lasting  impression,  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  jus- 


160  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

tice  in  this  world,  and  that  the  Gods  really  exist  in  order  to 
administer  it. 

Thus  the  ancient  poet  sings  of  the  nemesis  of  the  guilty 
deed ;  Ulysses  himself,  the  supreme  ethical  hero  of  Greece, 
as  his  last  and  greatest  act  will  avenge  the  wrongs  done  by 
those  profligate  suitors.  But  we  may  suppose  that  the  case 
of  Aegisthus  both  expressed  and  awoke  the  consciousness  as 
well  as  the  terror  of  punishment  for  the  guilty  deed,  and  the 
old  bard  palpitates  with  that  conviction  whenever  he  men- 
tions the  murderer.  And  one  cannot  help  thinking  that 
such  a  conviction  among  the  people  listening  in  silent  awe  to 
that  rapt  utterance  of  the  poet  helped  greately  to  raise 
Greece  out  of  her  Trojan  period,  to  change  her  from  being  a 
loose  group  of  bands  of  marauders  into  a  nation  with  an  or- 
ganized system  of  justice.  Arm  a  man  with  the  settled  con- 
viction that  guilt  is  followed  by  the  penalty  and  that  the 
Gods  exist  to  punish  the  secret  or  the  powerful  criminal — 
such  a  man  is  ready  to  belong  to  a  social  organism. 

One  may  well  think  that  the  swift  vengence  sweeping 
down  upon  these  brigands  of  Takos  is  the  event  which  has 
quite  cleared  Greece  of  brigandage  in  recent  times,  and  has 
wonderfully  enlightened  her  peasantry,  inspiring  them  with 
a  just  dread  of  the  Gods.  The  direct  blow  came  from  the 
government  of  Greece,  let  the  fact  be  duly  noted  to  its 
credit ;  but  the  indirect  power  behind  the  blow  came  from 
the  public  opinion  of  the  world,  expressed  in  journalism. 
A  new  and  mighty  force  it  is,  mightier  than  Orestes,  rather 
it  may  be  called  the  new  Orestes,  the  modern  avenger,  whose 
hand  even  the  unlettered  peasant  in  his  hut  far  out  of  the 
path  of  civilization,  feels  in  a  dark  mysterious  way,  and 
fears  the  Gods  once  more.  I  thought  I  saw  in  these  rude 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo.  1(51 

faces  terror  still  at  the  occurrence ;  they  seemed  to  manifest, 
at  its  recital,  a  feeling  of  dismay  before  the  secret  unseen 
agency  which  brings  back  to  man  his  guilty  deed. 

The  traveler  will  be  delighted  to  think  that  the  ancient 
Goddess  who  once  swayed  in  these  parts  has  risen  from  the 
rocks,  determined  to  rule  once  more  her  former  abodes. 
Look  down  toward  the  sea ;  below  in  the  valley  a  few  miles 
away  can  be  seen  the  site  of  ancient  Rhamnus  where  are  still 
the  ruins  of  the  splendid  temple  to  Rhamnusian  Nemesis,  she 
who  brings  home  to  the  doer  his  deed,  she  who  restores  the 
disturbed  balance  between  right  and  wrong.  She  once  en- 
joyed a  special  worship  in  this  locality,  then  came  the  storms 
of  the  world,  casting  into  dust  her  form  and  throwing  down 
her  structure ;  but  again  along  these  heights  she  rises  from 
the  broken  stones  of  her  temple  and  asserts  a  new  authority 
over  this  people.  For  it  is  her  thought,  the  thought  of  Ne 
mesis,  that  has  taken  its  seat  deep  in  the  hearts  of  the  pea- 
antry  and  rules  them  once  more  with  becoming  rigor.  Yet 
who  could  blame  the  simple  hind,  if  he  became  confused 
about  the  moral  government  of  the  world,  when  he  saw  vil- 
lany  go  unpunished,  and  the  honest  man  who  sought  to  bring 
the  criminal  to  justice,  fall  a  victim  to  private  revenge?  A 
person  might  well  say  in  his  heart,  there  is  no  God ;  or,  if 
there  ever  has  been,  he  has  fled  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
But  the  Rhamnusian  Goddess,  Nemesis,  has  leaped  up  from 
her  ruins  of  a  thousand  years,  has  taken  possession  of  her 
primitive  seats,  and  the  prayer  of  the  traveler  is,  Long  may 
she  remain  and  sway  with  her  iron  scepter  this  her  ancient 
territory. 

Listen  now  to  a  divine  legend  of  this  same  spot.     The  old 
statue  of  the  Goddess  of  Rhamnus  was  made  out  of  a  block 


162  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

of  Parian  marble  which  the  Persians,  in  their  haughtiness, 
had  brought  to  the  Marathonian  battle-field,  for  the  purpose 
of  erecting  a  trophy  over  the  vanquished  Greeks.  Phidias 
the  Athenian,  the  great  revealer  of  the  Gods,  took  the  block 
and  hewed  out  of  it  the  statue  of  the  Goddess  Nemesis,  says 
Pausanias.  Thus  from  the  very  triumphal  stone  of  the  ene- 
my sprang  the  avenging  deity;  the  artist  wrought  of  the 
marble  a  symbol  of  retribution  against  the  invader  who  had 
brought  it  there  to  celebrate  his  insolent  wrong.  Thus  too 
springs  from  the  unjust  action  the  scourging  Nemesis,  as  the 
Goddess  sprang  from  that  block,  and  brings  to  the  doer  the 
penalty  of  his  guilty  deed. 

Such  then  were  the  two  temples  that  anciently  stood  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Marcopoulo — that  of  Amphiaraus  and  that 
of  the  Rhamnusian  Goddess — the  latter  of  which  lay  at  some 
distance  but  may  be  said  to  belong  to  this  region.  But  the 
most  interesting  as  well  as  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  ruins 
in  Greece,  nay,  I  should  say  the  most  important  remains  of 
antiquity  which  have  come  down  to  our  time,  lie  around  me 
everywhere,  and  have  been  lying  around  me  during  the  whole 
journey:  these  are  the  remains  of  the  old  Greek  language 
and  of  old  Greek  customs.  Here  they  both  exist  in  living 
activity  and  make  that  ancient  world  a  new  one,  born  every 
moment  into  life  by  speech  and  action.  One  will  notice  old 
forms  of  words  which  have  been  manifestly  preserved  by  tra- 
dition from  ancient  days,  for  they  are  not  found  in  books, 
37et  seem  to  be  in  consonance  with  certain  old  Greek  dialects. 
I  do  not  feel  very  sure  upon  this  ground,  for  my  ear  is  not 
yet  accustomed  to  niceties  of  pronunciation ;  but  so  much 
may  be  affirmed,  that  this  is  the  true  field  for  the  student  of 
Greek  philology :  let  him  spend  one  half  of  his  course  among 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo.  163 

the  living  dialects  of  Greece,  and  the  other  half  among  the 
dead  grammarians  at  the  University. 

But  of  the  antiquity  of  many  of  these  customs  there  can  be 
no  doubt.  You  move  in  an  ancient  atmosphere,  not  by  any 
means  of  your  own  creation,  though  you  must  bring  some 
image  of  antiquity  with  you.  Indeed  the  entire  background 
of  classical  literature  clears  up  into  a  mellow  sunshine,  and 
the  cadaverous  classical  dictionary  leaps  forth  a  living  body, 
with  its  dead  and  scattered  members  now  jointing  them- 
selves into  a  vital  and  beautiful  organism.  Far  more  than 
all  the  museums  of  Italy  and  of  other  countries,  does  Greece 
to-day  contain  of  ancient  Hellenic  life ;  elsewhere  antiquity 
is  a  mummy,  here  it  lives,  lives  in  an  ever-flowing  fountain 
of  speech  and  manners.  The  Greek  temple  is  here,  though 
in  ruins,  for  have  we  not  just  seen  it?  Broken  parts  of  col- 
umn and  entablature  lie  scattered  about  or  must  be  dug  up 
from  the  soil ;  still  from  these  fragments  the  temple  can  be 
constructed  anew  in  its  original  vital  unity.  But  to  see  the 
dry,  anatomized  dictionary  actually  sprouting  with  fresh 
buds  every  day,  its  old  withered  limbs  covering  themselves 
with  green  leaves  and  sproutlings,  is  a  joy  like  that  of  the 
new  spring-time  after  a  dreary  winter. 

Yet  amid  so  many  delights  I  must  confess  to  one  dis- 
appointment :  I  have  not  yet  seen  Helen  nor  indeed  the  pos- 
ibility  of  Helen.  I  do  not  now  expect  to  find  her  in  this  por- 
tion of  Greece.  The  Albanian  type  has  had  possession  of 
these  hills  for  some  centuries,  and  though  the  Albanians  have 
adopted  and  preserved  much  that  was  Greek,  and  may  have 
had  a  common  origin  with  the  Greek  in  the  old  Pelasgic 
stock,  they  have  no  Helen.  Onward  then,  still  onward  we 
must  pass  in  the  search,  yet  not  without  hope ;  for  where  so- 


104  A  Walk  in 

much  has  survived,  she  too  may  possibly  have  survived,  in 
primitive  youthful  beauty.  Also  a  faint  rumor  we  have 
heard  with  new  encouragement,  that  off  somewhere  in  the 
distant  mountains  she  is  concealed  in  peasant  garb,  accessi- 
ble only  to  the  most  enthusiastic  and  determined  suitor. 
Looking  in  restless  expectancy  at  those  mountains  with 
summit  and  sides  wrapped  in  clouds,  yet  thinking  always  of 
what  they  conceal,  we  shall  still  keep  up  our  light-hearted 
journey.  But  it  is  a  rainy  day  and  we  are  penned  in  by  the 
storm ;  it  offers  therefore  a  good  opportunity  for  retrospec- 
tion and  renewed  purpose ;  so  we  resolve  with  fresh  ardor  to 
maintain  the  quest. 

Long  we  continued  to  sit  around  the  table  sipping  the  mo- 
ments away  with  the  golden  recinato,  while  the  tempest  was 
whistling  and  whirling  furiously  outside.  One  begins  to 
feel  cramped  up,  the  wineshop  is  already  too  small  for  the 
chafing  spirit,  Greece  itself  appears  to  be  getting  too  small. 
Suddenly  the  lawyer  began  to  talk  about  America :  that  is 
a  country  large  enough  for  anybody  to  stretch  himself  out 
upon.  He  asked  me  if  I  knew  some  person  at  Boston ;  I 
had  to  tell  him  that  between  my  home  and  Boston  lay  an  ex- 
tent of  territory  much  greater  than  that  between  Greece  and 
Rome,  the  two  main  centers  of  ancient  civilization,  a  dis- 
tance hardly  less  than  that  from  Greece  to  North-Western 
Europe,  the  seat  of  modern  civilization.  With  such  slow 
and  painful  steps  does  our  world  seem  to  move  in  that  East- 
ern continent — be  it  said  with  all  due  gratitude  and  rever- 
ence. But  on  the  other  hand  the  distance  between  St.  Louis 
and  Boston,  if  we  reckon  by  time,  by  ease  of  traveling,  even 
by  expense,  is  not  as  great  as  that  between  this  little  Attic 
town  Marcopoulo  and  Athens.  Nor  did  I  fail  to  maintain 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo.  1(55 

to  those  two  keen-witted  Greeks  before  me  the  metaphysical 
subtlety  that  iu  America  Space  is  destined  to  sink  away,  and 
be  subsumed  in  Time  really,  that  is  to  the  very  senses  of 
men,  as  it  already  had  done  ideally  to  the  mind  of  the  old 
Greek  philosopher. 

Having  thus  once  more  felt  in  that  little  wineshop  the  free 
range  and  the  boundless  expanse  of  the  prairies  of  our  west- 
ern world,  I  could  not  help  enlarging  still  further,  and  spoke 
again  of  those  space-devouring  Americans  with  their  inven- 
tions— the  Telegraph  which  extends  its  arms  around  the 
earth  and  drops  its  message  at  any  point;  the  Telephone, 
which  not  only  carries  the  written  word,  but  the  voice  in  all 
its  tones  through  Space  ;  finally  the  wonderful  Phonograph, 
invented  this  very  year,  the  machine  which  speaks  and  pro- 
poses to  carry  the  voice  not  through  Space  merely,  but 
through  Time  itself,  so  that  the  spoken  word,  in  all  its 
modulation  and  color,  shall  become  eternal.  I  added  with 
the  most  mysterious  air  at  my  command:  Time,  too,  like 
Space  is  destined  there  to  be  no  longer  an  impassible  limit 
within  which  man  is  kept  in  a  prison-house,  but  will  sink 
away  for  the  senses,  and  be  subsumed  into  a  higher  entity. 
Then  those  Greeks  were  lost — lost  in  blank  amazement; 
they  seemed  touched  almost  with  despair  at  the  wonderful 
achievements  of  a  superior  race.  For  the  lawyer  was  actual- 
ly brought  to  declare :  Yes,  your  people  are  most  like  to  our 
ancestors,  and  to  us. 

Giving  them  honest  words  of  assent  and  comfort,  the 
speaker,  true  'to  his  nationality,  could  not  so  suddenly  stop 
that  flight  of  winged  words,  for  he  must  now  make  a  speech, 
and  so  he  continued :  The  ancient  Greeks  indeed  created  the 
ideal  types  which  we  have  filled,  and  are  still  filling  with 


166  A.  Walk  in  Hellas. 

reality.  What  are  all  these  mechanical  wonders,  for  in- 
stance, but  the  realisation  of  what  that  gifted  people,  your 
forefathers,  suggested  in  thought  and  in  imagination, 
in  their  philosophy  and  in  their  poetrjr?  In  fact  what  are 
they  but  the  fulfilment  of  prophetic  gleamings  found  in  one 
Greek  man,  old  Homer?  What  is  the  Telegraph  communi- 
cating its  message  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  but  Hermes,  mes- 
senger of  the  Gods,  with  winged  sandals  swaying  over  land 
and  sea,  bearing  the  news  from  Olympus  down  to  mortals  at 
a  thought?  What  is  the  Telephone  but  the  far-sounding 
Jupiter,  sitting  above  the  clouds  in  the  pure  noiseless  ether, 
uttering  his  word  to  the  people,  not  exactly  in  thunders  now, 
but  in  a  way  even  more  emphatic  and  far-reaching?  And 
what  is  the  Phonograph  but  that  wonderful  voice  of  the  Poet 
himself,  still  heard  sweetly  singing  down  through  the  ages 
in  all  its  luscious  color  and  modulation,  and  which  will  go  on 
singing  to  all  eternity?  Voice  too  fixed  now  strangely  in 
characters  which  the  bard  himself  could  not  read,  were  he  at 
present  to  come  back  to  earth  again. 

These  forms  of  the  imagination  are  in  our  day  being 
realized,  made  palpable  in  material  shapes;  thus,  however, 
they  must  descend  from  their  height,  must  drop  from  poetry 
into  prose.  So  one  may  well  believe  that  the  world's  His- 
tory is  alwa}rs  doing ;  the  forms  of  the  imagination  seen  by 
Poet  or  Prophet  are  made  actual ;  thus  the  truest  work  that 
our  latest  civilization  has  done  is  to  translate  Homer  into 
prose ;  this  is  indeed  the  best  translation.  Nor  can  we  stop 
yet ;  plenty  of  work  has  the  old  bard  given  us  to  do  for  in- 
definite ages  to  come,  if  we  would  completely  fill  his  forms 
with  reality.  Not  until  every  individual  can  be  his  own 
Hermes,  put  on  some  mysterious  talaria  or  sandal  wings, 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo.  167 

grasp  some  unknown  strange  caduceus  or  serpent  wand,  and 
thus  equipped  strike  out  boldly  through  the  air  to  the  other 
side  of  the  earth  to  visit  a  neighbor  or  take  a  look  at  the 
Parthenon  before  breakfast — not  until  then  can  we  be  said 
to  have  done  with  this  question  of  translating  Homer. 

Which  is  the  greater,  he  or  we?  one  will  hear  it  often 
asked.  He  doubtless  is  the  creator,  he  created  in  beauty  the 
forms  which  we  are  seeking  to  endow  with  material  reality ; 
we  are  but  carrying  out  the  instructions,  working  after  the 
pattern  of  the  master ;  we  are  simply  fulfilling  his  prophecy, 
or  are  the  offspring  of  his  typical  characters.  He  is  the 
original,  he  is  the  greater.  But  each  one  of  us  sits  on  a 
throne,  as  Jupiter  on  Olympus,  controlling  a  world ;  we  lord 
it  infinitely  like  a  deity,  little  restrained  by  the  limits  of  Space 
and  Time ;  we  do  and  are  quite  all  that  the  old  Greek  divini- 
ties did  or  were.  We  mortals  have  indeed  become  Homer's 
Gods,  and  mightier ;  we  are  the  greater. 

But  hold !  I  find  that  I  have  completely  fallen  out  of  my 
part ;  I  began  by  making  this  speech  to  the  Greeks  there  in 
the  wineshop,  but  I  have  gradually  lapsed  into  addressing  it 
wholly  to  you  here.  Such  tricks  the  rainy  day  plays  upon 
us  with  its  driving  tempest  of  reflections.  Still  some- 
thing of  the  kind  was  said  then ;  there  was  the  lawyer  sit- 
ting with  the  host,  both  of  whom  could  understand  me; 
there  too  was  Varvouillya,  the  Theban,  with  a  huge  wart  on 
his  nose,  lying  back  in  a  kind  of  mystified  re  very,  yet  never 
failing  to  take  his  portion  of  recinato.  Most  of  the  Alban- 
ians went  away,  preferring  the  rain  outside,  of  which,  to  be 
just  to  them,  they  and  their  garments  were  in  greater  need 
than  of  my  sort  of  drenching.  Still  we  continued  to  quaff 
in  gentle  measures  the  golden  liquid,  more  wonderful  than 


1H8  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

the  touch  of  Midas,  which  could  only  turn  material  things 
into  shining  metal.  At  last  the  sun  himself  came  out,  gold- 
en too,  and  shone  upon  the  table  before  us,  promising  a 
glorious  morrow. 

And  now  about  all  this  drinking — what  does  it  mean  in 
you?  Thus  I  have  been  repeatedly  asked,  particularly  by 
young  ladies.  Did  you  really  drink  all  that  you  say  you  did 
— you  who  have  more  the  appearance  of  an  apostle  of  total 
abstinence  than  of  a  jovial  Greek — did  you  drink  all  that 
wine?  So  they  ask  me,  getting  a  little  solicitous  about  my 
personal  habits  while  away  from  home  and  its  good  in- 
fluences. But  on  the  whole  I  have  to  answer :  Yes,  so  it 's 
and  not  otherwise.  You  see  that  Greece  is  not  Greece  with- 
out its  wine,  and  I  for  one  went  to  see  Greece,  and  even  to 
be  a  Greek  as  far  as  I  could,  while  I  was  in  that  land.  Nor 
would  there  be  any  complete  Italy  without  its  wine ;  it  so 
partakes  of  the  life  and  poetry  of  these  classic  lands,  that  it 
can  not  be  left  away.  If  any  one  wishes  to  enter  into  the 
manners  and  realize  the  mode  of  living  in  Greece,  he  can  not 
omit  the  wine.  The  poorest  peasant  has  two  green  spots 
which  he  carefully  cultivates  with  his  hands  and  cherishes  in 
his  heart :  they  are  his  vineyard  and  grain  field.  I  have  of- 
ten seen  him  going  to  his  work  to  remain  the  whole  day ;  his 
dinner  is  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  canteen  of  recinato.  These 
two  things,  bread  and  wine,  are  the  two  elements  of  his  ex- 
istence, and  the  two  objects  for  which  the  labor  of  his  days 
is  given. 

Thus  they  constitute  quite  the  entire  circle  of  his  simple 
life ;  they  maintain  him,  he  maintains  them.  But  to  us  they 
have  come  te  .and  in  a  new  and  peculiar  relation.  These 
two  simple  staples  have  been  transmitted  from  the  Orient  to 


Rainy  Day  at  Mareopoulo.  169 

the  Occident  in  the  highest  and  most  venerated  of  all  its 
religious  symbols,  in  the  bread  and  wine  of  the  Lord's  Sup- 
per. The  Savior  took  the  two  chief  elements  of  the  material 
existence  before  him,  when  he  wished  to  typify  the  higher  or 
spiritual  existence ;  they  were  the  symbols  most  manifest  to 
the  poor  and  unlettered  peasant  as  they  were  taken  from  his 
most  intimate  daily  experience ;  they  were  also  the  two  seg- 
ments which  made  up  for  him  the  completed  circle  of  life, 
thus  representing  the  completeness  of  the  higher  sphere.  But 
for  us  the  strange  fact  appears  that  one  of  these  elements  is 
often  considered  to  ally  us  not  with  the  spiritual,  but  with 
the  bestial,  and  that  many  persons  can,  without  any  appar- 
ent inner  dissonance,  take  it  one  moment  as  the  symbol  of 
God  and  the  next  moment  reprobate  it  as  the  product  of  the 
Devil.  Such  a  discord  would  utterly  destroy  our  Greek 
mood ;  we  shall  try  to  banish  it  now  and  forever. 

Also  the  mighty  difference  between  the  two  articles  should 
be  observed  by  the  thoughtful  seeker  of  nourishment. 
Bread  alone  supplies  the  body,  but  even  the  peasant  scorns 
such  gross  living  and  adds  the  wine.  Bread  furnishes  bone 
and  muscle,  wine  enters  the  blood  and  excites  the  soul,  the 
inner  genius  and  energy  of  the  man.  The  former  enables 
him  to  walk,  but  the  latter  gives  him  wings.  In  other 
words,  bread  is  prose,  but  wine  is  poetry.  Nay,  it  is  the 
only  poetical  drink  conceivable,  celebrated  by  poets  in  all 
ages.  To  sing  the  praises  of  any  other  beverage  will  not 
succeed,  somehow  or  other ;  the  song  of  water  is  insipid,  the 
song  of  beeT  is  gross,  the  song  of  wliisky  is  frantic.  Wine 
alone  can  be  sung  about.  Life,  the  dullest  life,  has  in  this 
Grecian  land  its  prosaic  and  its  poetic  ingredient — bread 
and  wine,  not  all  bread  and  butter.  To  travel  through 


170  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

Greece  and  leave  the  poetry  out,  would  be  indeed  a  most 
melancholy  journey ;  do  not  ask  me  to  make  it,  still  less  to 
tell  of  it  afterwards.  Rather,  I  should  advise,  let  us  add  a 
little  of  this  Greek  wine  to  the  bread  of  our  own  daily  lives. 

Moreover  it  is  a  principle  with  the  true-hearted  traveler, 
to  live  as  the  people  live  wherever  he  goes,  to  throw  himself 
into  their  life  and  consciousness,  into  both  their  physical  and 
spiritual  condition,  to  be  one  with  them  and  to  exist  for  the 
time  being  sympathetically  along  with  them.  To  take  a  lof- 
ty stand-point  above  them,  and  thence  with  an  air  of  superi- 
ority to  look  down  upon  their  life  and  manners,  and  to  criti- 
cise what  you  have  not  lived,  is  the  way  to  deceive  yourself, 
— to  think  you  know  all  about  them  when  you  know  noth- 
ing. One  person,  at  least,  whom  I  am  acquainted  with,  does 
not  propose  to  travel  in  that  way ;  he  is  going  to  drink  re- 
cinato  and  like  it,  even  if  he  did  not  like  it — which,  as  I 
happen  to  know,  is  not  the  case. 

Thus  it  is,  too,  with  the  fustanella,  the  Greek  male  cos- 
tume, of  which  much  fun  has  been  made.  I  do  not  deny 
that  I  at  first  thought  it  was  the  most  ridiculous  garment  I 
ever  beheld  on  a  human  body — a  man  in  tights  and  ruffles, 
dressed  like  a  ballet-girl,  walking  the  streets  in  open  day. 
But  I  confess  that  the  liking  for  the  costume  grows  upon  me 
as  I  see  it  in  its  true  place  on  these  hills ;  it  is  just  fitted  for 
this  climate  and  for  this  clear  atmosphere.  It  has,  too,  a 
poetic  phase,  being  very  different  in  this  regard  from  the 
prosaic  utilitarian  dress  of  the  Franks.  That  white  shape, 
seen  far  up  the  sunny  slope,  though  it  be  following  the  la- 
borious plow,  has  the  air  of  an  eternal  holiday  and  seems 
rather  some  sculptured  relief  in  marble  representing  the  toil- 
ing husbandman  than  an  actual  ploughman.  To  me  at  least 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo.  171 

it  is  a  sight  most  pleasant,  surrounding  the  prosaic  occupation 
of  life  with  an  ideal  atmosphere  of  joy  and  beauty.  Still,  I 
am  not  so  far  advanced  as  to  drop  my  present  garments  and 
don  the  f ustanella,  as  Lord  Byron  is  said  to  have  done ;  you 
must  not  expect  too  much  at  once,  the  journey  is  not  half 
over. 

Well,  another  shower !  What  a  dull,  rainy  day !  In  or- 
der to  impart  to  you  a  most  lively  impression  of  it,  you  must 
be  made  drowsy,  which  literary  quality  I  do  not  despair  of 
infusing  into  my  words.  If  you  have  not  yet  yawned,  I 
hope  to  succeed  in  making  you  harmonious  with  the  occasion 
by  the  following  reflections,  which  give  a  more  general  state- 
ment of  the  question  just  discussed.  This  question  is,  at 
bottom,  concerning  the  difference  between  morals  and  man- 
ners. Morals  are  universal ;  the  whole  civilized  world  has 
fundamentally  the  same  code  of  morals ;  concerning  moral 
violation  there  is  in  general  the  same  opinion.  But  manners 
are  very  different  with  different  peoples.  Do  not  judge  men 
by  the  cut  of  their  dress,  by  their  cookery ;  do  not  judge  of 
the  world's  history  by  the  ways  of  making  a  bow.  Still  fur- 
ther, do  not  condemn  morally  a  people  whose  manners  are 
different  from  your  own ;  who  wear  the  fez  and  f  ustanella 
and  you  do  not ;  who  drink  wine  and  you  do  not ;  who  even 
go  a  spectacle  on  Sunday  and  you  do  not.  Ask  rather  this 
other  question,  if  you  wish  to  find  out  the  relative  moral 
beanngs :  Are  these  people  as  great  drunkards  as  I  or  my 
people ;  do  they  steal  as  much  as  I  or  my  people ;  are  they 
as  faithful  to  domestic  life,  to  patriotic  duty  as  I  or  my  peo- 
ple? Nowhere  in  the  world  is  it  possible  to  conceive  of  a 
rational  being  who  has  any  doubt  concerning  the  moral  char- 
acter of  such  actions.  But  when  there  is  an  important  differ- 


172  A  Walk  in  llella*. 

ence  between  peoples,  you  may  generally  assume  that  it  lies 
in  the  sphere  of  manners  rather  than  in  that  of  morals.  Men 
do  not  differ  about  the  nature  of  murder,  they  do  differ 
about  the  propriety  of  eating  with  fork  or  finger.  Travelers 
are  too  often  inclined  to  play  variations  on  this  one  jejune 
theme :  the  manners  of  this  people  are  ridiculous,  perchance 
immoral ;  reason :  they  are  not  my  manners  or  those  of  my 
people.  On  the  contrary,  no  manners  in  the  true  sense  of 
the  word  can  be  immoral — they  have  no  moral  character  one 
way  or  the  other ;  they  are  all  equally  good,  let  everybody 
take  his  choice.  Make  then  most  sharply  the  distinction  be- 
tween morals  and  manners ;  change  the  latter  with  every  new 
people  you  live  among ;  but  be  careful  about  changing  the 
former  with  the  change  of  climate,  since  they  are  a  matter  of 
universal  validity. 

But  let  the  mind  turn  once  more  from  this  dry  discussion 
to  the  liquid  source,  the  recinato,  whose  throbbing  beads  we 
raise  now  to  our  lips  before  parting,  and  empty  our  final 
glass  amid  hearty  gushes  of  good  feeling.  As  I  spring  up 
from  the  table  and  look  around,  I  notice  that  the  sun  has 
again  come  out  and  is  throwing  his  declining  rays  aslant  the 
door  sill ;  it  is  a  joyful  invitation  into  the  fresh,  clear  air  out 
of  that  cheerless  wineshop.  Behold,  the  rain  is  over,  the 
sun  is  descending  in  a  blaze  over  the  mountain  top ;  the  last 
clouds,  scattered  and  broken,  are  fleeing  across  the  sky,  riding 
with  breakneck  speed,  like  routed  dragoons.  It  is,  however, 
too  late  to  do  anything  except  to  take  a  walk  to  yonder  pine 
woods.  I  go  down  the  road  which  leads  thither,  the  grass 
has  a  new  and  deeper  tinge  of  green  after  the  rain,  and  many 
a  little  flower  thrusts  out  its  mottled  head  from  among  the 
rocks,  filled  with  some  secret  instinct  of  showing  its  beauty. 


Rainy  Day  at  Maruopoulo.  173 

The  fragrance  that  rises  from  the  pines  meets  the  ap- 
proaching guest  more  than  half  way,  and  pleasantly  invites 
him  forward  to  their  shelter  with  repeated  waftings  of  in- 
cense. The  fresh  smell  of  the  showers  mingles  with  the  odor 
of  the  woods ;  the  sombre  forms  of  the  conifers  are  lighted 
with  the  slanting  rays  which  glide  among  the  small,  needle- 
shaped  leaves  and  transform  them  into  millions  of  mellow 
gleams  ever  dancing  between  green  and  gold.  Suddenly, 
from  a  covered  copse  just  at  the  side  of  the  path,  the  voice  of 
an  unseen  person  pierces  loud  and  far  through  the  air,  now 
washed  clean  of  every  mote ;  it  is  quite  similar  to  that  voice 
which  we  heard  through  the  fog  yesterday  so  mysteriously 
on  the  mountains.  A  few  steps  reveal  the  form;  it  is  a 
shepherd  girl,  and  here  is  her  flock  browsing  about  her 
through  the  woods.  Her  call  is  for  some  distant  companion, 
possibly  for  her  lover,  whose  answer  in  like  tones  can  be  faint- 
ly heard  from  a  hill-ride  far  off  to  the  left.  That  peculiar  in- 
tonation she  makes  seems  to  cut  through  the  air,  buoyantly 
riding  over  the  dales,  creeping  up  the  sinuous  mountain 
slopes,  and  dropping  faintly  at  last  behind  the  farthest 
summits. 

But  we  shall  not  yet  turn  back  to  the  village ;  the  spend- 
thrift, Nature,  is  this  evening  indulging  in  one  of  her  wildest 
debauches  after  so  long  restraint ;  let  us  too  be  filled  with  a 
little  of  her  extravagance.  Behind  these  woods  is  a  distant 
view  of  a  cultivated  valley  which  breaks  fitfully  through  be- 
tween the  trunks  of  the  trees  whose  branches  form  close- 
woven  vistas  down  into  the  rolling  fields  of  grain.  Farther 
on  we  come  to  the  road  winding  over  the  bill-side  ;  we  reach 
a  turn  in  it,  when  suddenly  there  bursts  into  view  the  sea, 
calmly  carrying  the  eye  over  its  level  expanse  into  the  Invis- 


174  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

ible.  This  is  the  Euripus,  southwards  breaking  into  tbe 
open  sea,  but  in  front  being  only  a  narrow  strait  dividing 
the  island  Euboea  from  the  mainland  Attica.  The  waters 
now  lie  almost  in  repose,  with  just  a  slight  tremble  under  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun,  from  which  a  long  golden  wake 
passes  over  the  surface  of  ripples  to  the  eye  of  the  beholder,, 
as  if  the  chariot  of  Apollo  was  running  across  the  sea  just 
there  out  of  the  sunset,  and  throwing  off  from  its  wheels 
blazing  flakes  of  sun-fire.  Over  the  waters  is  spread  a  very 
thin  transparent  robe  of  haze,  tenderly  blue,  not  hiding  but 
rather  revealing  what  it  veils.  The  wake  of  palpitating 
flames  extends  across  the  channel  to  the  other  shore  and, 
lights  up  Eretria,  village  white  and  fair,  lying  on  the  border 
of  the  sea.  The  town  seems  just  now  to  have  crawled  out 
of  the  waves,  like  some  white-bodied  ocean-nymph  and  to 
have  lain  down  in  the  sun  at  the  edge  of  the  water.  There 
she  looks  at  herself  in  the  glassy  depths  and  smiles,  behold- 
ing her  own  face  in  that  calm  mirror.  In  a  happy  sunlit 
serenity  the  silvery  line  of  houses  is  reposing  along  the 
bank ;  thus  one  is  compelled  to  endow  the  mild  marble  out- 
lines of  the  spot  with  some  Greek  plastic  form.  A  flock  of 
pigeons  whirs  above  the  head ;  high  over  the  water  they  flap 
their  wings  transmuted  in  that  sunny  haze  to  resplendent 
pinions ;  then  about  half  way  across  the  channel  they  sweep, 
about  in  a  long  curve  and  fly  up  the  strait  toward  Chalkis, 
disappearing  in  golden  flames. 

Thus  fairly  on  the  sea  rests  Eretria  yonder,  bending  like  a 
crescent  of  white  marble ;  but  now  glance  behind  the  town 
to  the  heights  there  for  the  final  scene,  where  this  day's 
drowsy  drama  is  brought  to  an  end  in  gorgeous  spectacular 
pomp.  Running  through  the  island  as  far  as  the  eye  can 


Rainy  Day  at  Marcopoulo.  175 

reach  is  a  line  of  mountains  snow-mantled,  along  whose 
ridged  summits  the  last  beams  of  to-day  are  reposing  with  a 
lustre  soft  and  soothing  to  the  sight.  There  the  colossal 
hoary  shapes  sit,  as  it  were  at  some  Olympian  feast,  marble 
Gods  with  heads  garlanded  in  sunshine ;  beyond  this  first 
line  can  be  seen  other  heads  looming  up  at  that  banqueting 
table.  See  how  the  white  drapery  of  snow  glistens  through 
the  deep  rows  of  mountainous  statuary;  notice  too  the  sun's 
line  drawn  along  the  billowy  crests,  while  dusk  keeps  shad- 
ing more  deeply  the  slants  below ;  nearer  the  tops  that  lus- 
trous line  is  always  climbing ;  now  it  quite  touches  the  shoul- 
ders of  the  tallest  white-draped  guests  sitting  there  in  stately 
order.  But  in  the  midst  of  them  stands  their  king,  ancient 
Basilicon,  towering  far  above  all  the  others  in  proud  majesty, 
the  Jupiter  of  this  divine  throng.  Beside  him,  indeed,  the 
rest  seem  to  sink  down  to  the  level  of  the  earth ;  soon  their 
heads  are  covered  with  shadows,  bowed,  as  it  were,  in  his 
presence  and  slightly  muffled;  while  Apollo,  as  his  grand 
final  act  of  the  day  sets  on  the  white  brow  of  the  mountain 
king  a  golden  crown,  flashing  to  this  distance  with  rubies  and 
amethysts  amid  a  fitful  sparkle  of  snow  diamonds.  That 
regal  pageant  will  not  release  the  eye  till  the  crown  with  all 
its  brilliants  is  lifted  from  the  summit  into  the  sky,  and  there 
just  above  the  peak  is  set  in  the  clouds,  which  are  gilded  for 
a  few  moments  and  faintly  studded  with  gems;  then  the 
clouds  too  fall  under  a  deepening  shadow  which  converts 
them  at  once  to  dun  dragons  of  the  air.  It  is  a  sudden, 
fearful  transformation ;  startled  I  turn  around  to  retrace  my 
steps ;  the  pine  woods  have  changed  to  a  dark  tangled  mass 
of  serpentine  monsters ;  above  the  tree  tops  is  a  faint  throb- 
bing twilight  which  only  brings  into  stronger  relief  the  black 


17()  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

funereal  conifers  pointing  in  ghostly  silence  upwards  to  the 
Heavens.  Do  not  be  scared,  but  I  had  to  shudder,  and  I 
hurried  past  the  woods  to  the  village  with  something  follow- 
ing me  close  to  my  heels ;  through  the  dark  lanes  I  wound 
swiftly  to  my  quarters,  where  I  burst  open  the  door  in  some 
perturbation,  a  demon  being  ready  to  grasp  me  just  as  I 
sprang  across  the  siD. 

But  as  I  enter,  behold!  there  is  the  blazing  fire  in  the 
hearth,  with  the  children  sporting  around  it;  the  table  is 
spread  on  the  floor,  Varvouillya  is  raking  the  clams  from  the 
hot  ashes,  the  host  is  sitting,  cross-legged,  on  the  mat,  with 
the  demijohn  of  recinato  at  his  side,  I  squat  down  in  my 
place,  and  the  symposium  begins  anew.  But  things  may  be 
repeated,  words  ought  not  to  be ;  good  dinners  can  be  re- 
peated often,  good  descriptions  of  dinner  sate  soon — one  is 
enough.  So  this  second  festivity,  though  quite  as  merry  as 
the  first,  may  be  forever  chained  down  in  the  dark  prison  of 
the  Silences.  But  to-morrow  is  a  day  of  rich  promise ;  I 
predict  that  the  sun  will  shine,  the  birds  will  sing,  the  high 
waters  will  run  out,  and  the  traveler,  light-hearted  and  light- 
footed,  will  shoulder  his  knapsack  once  more,  and  will 
follow  the  bright  image  fleeing  before  him  along  the  banks 
of  beautiful  blue  Euripus. 


TALE  SEVEN!  H, 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis. 

Two  nights  and  one  day  I  had  remained  with  the  host  of 
Marcopoulo,  when  early  in  the  morning  of  the  second  day  I 
asked  him  for  his  .bill.  Five  francs  he  replied.  Without  a 
grumble  I  handed  him  a  piece  of  Greek  paper  money  repre- 
senting that  sum ;  then  taking  a  final  sip  of  recinato  with 
him  I  prepared  to  set  out.  At  his  request  I  promised  to 
give  him  and  his  house  a  good  name,  which  I  hope  I  have 
not  failed  to  do. 

Varvouillya  who  was  also  going  to  Aulis  on  his  way  to 
Chalkis  and  Thebes,  had  already  gotten  his  two  donkeys  in 
trim  and  had  started  a  little  before  me.  Soon  we  are  among 
the  hills  green  with  early  spring  and  fresh  with  the  recent 
shower ;  the  rising  sun  is  beginning  to  reach  out  to  us  over 
the  mountain  tops  and  fling  into  our  faces  his  first  handful 
of  rays.  You  would  say  that  Nature  just  now  is  rubbing 
her  eyes,  about  to  leap  out  of  bed  into  the  happy  daylight. 
At  her  during  this  operation,  the  traveler  will  gaze  with  una- 
bashed joy  and  behold  beauties  never  revealed  to  the  gar- 


178  A   Walk  in  Hellas. 

ish  mid-day.  So  for  a  moment  imagine  yourself  to  be  the 
traveler,  as  he  passes  along  looking  up  to  the  illuminated 
summits,  and  peering  down  into  the  verdant  valleys,  while 
he  snuffs  the  delicate  fragrance  of  the  pine  on  the  morning 
air. 

Varvouillya  walks  also  for  some  distance,  but  he  enjoys 
the  luxury  of  riding  far  more,  and  soon  mounts  the  back  of 
one  of  his  little  donkeys.  These  have  but  a  slight  burden, 
consisting  merely  of  a  saddle,  two  or  three  blankets  and 
some  provision  for  our  luncheon.  This  Greek  saddle  is  a 
curiosity.  It  is  a  rude  scaffolding  made  of  cross  pieces  and 
placed  on  the  back  of  the  donkey ;  it  Can  be  straddled  by  no 
mortal  rider  but  only  by  the  Gods.  Therefore  a  man  when 
he  mounts  must  sit  in  it  like  a  chair,  with  both  feet  hanging 
down  on  one  side.  I  never  saw  a  Greek  rider  that  did  not 
keep  his  feet  swinging  to  and  fro,  and  at  intervals  thrust 
his  heels  into  the  withers  of  the  animal  which  would  respond 
not  by  hastening  its  pace,  but  by  dropping  back  its  ears  in 
defiant  humor. 

Thus  Varvouillya  springs  upon  the  donkey  and  settles 
down  into  the  saddle  as  if  taking  his  seat  in  his  customarj- 
«hair;  with  shoulders  slightly  inch'ned  he  sits  there,  in 
dreamy  relaxation  of  features ;  his  steel-gray  hair  falls  be- 
low his  close-fitting  cap,  now  somewhat  soiled  around  the 
edges ;  feet,  dressed  in  red-leathered,  sharp-pointed  pumps, 
are  swinging  stockingless,  to  and  fro,  in  alternate  oscilla- 
tion; what  is  he,  brigand  or  honest  man?  He  professes  to 
be  a  carrier  of  merchandise  through  these  parts ;  evidently 
he  is  a  very  different  person  from  the  merchant  Aristides ; 
I  do  not  deny  being  a  little  dubious  about  him.  Still  he  is 
very  friendly,  he  has  repeatedly  asked  me  to  ride,  but  at 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis.  179 

present  I  much  prefer  the  exhilaration  of  walking.  The 
gait  of  the  little  donkey  is  slow ;  I  pass  on  in  advance,  then 
wait,  sitting  down  upon  some  seat  of  the  Nymphs  to  look  at 
an  attractive  view,  or  take  a  note.  Still  the  rider's  feet 
keep  going  backwards  and  forwards,  and  whenever  the  don- 
key stops  for  a  passing  bite  at  some  green  bunch  of  leaves 
along  the  roadside,  he  gives  a  smart  kick  with  his  heels,  ac- 
companied by  a  deep  grunt  of  reproof. 

Soon  we  descend  into  an  extensive  plain  and  cross  a  small 
stream  whose  high  waters  have  pretty  well  run  out ;  this  is 
an  encouraging  sign,  for  we  have  been  in  some  anxiety 
about  the  fording  of  the  Asopus.  The  fields  are  musical  with 
larks  through  whose  song  we  pass  till  the  road  comes  to  the 
sea,  the  Euripus.  Along  the  coast  just  at  the  edge  of  the 
water  the  road  leads  us  for  miles ;  under  the  slight  breeze  the 
surface  is  in  a  gentle  tremor,  and  the  ripples  beat  up  the 
shelving  shore  incessantly  breaking  at  our  feet.  The  wave- 
lets are  good  company,  yet  quite  different  from  the  society  of 
the  running  brook ;  they  have  a  sort  of  absorbing  fascination, 
as  you  sit  and  gaze  at  them,  for  you  are  caught  into  their 
rhythm,  and  break  on  the  shore  along  with  them.  That  reg- 
ularity of  the  ripple,  that  ever-recurring  beat  of  the  sea  be- 
comes one  with  the  throb  of  your  heart,  with  the  flight  of 
your  moments  which,  like  these  wavelets,  roll  up  from  the 
the  infinite  sea  of  Time,  break  to  pieces  on  the  shore  of  the 
Present,  then  vanish  into  Eternity.  It  is  never  difficult  for 
the  soul  to  be  absorbed  into  the  sea  and  become  harmonious 
with  its  waters ;  the  sea  is  indeed  naught  but  an  immense 
musical  instrument,  one  may  imagine  it  to  be  a  colossal 
bass-viol  which  sets  the  world  throbbing  to  its  notes.  Thus 
the  minutes  of  life  fall  to-day  into  a  measure  with  the  vibra- 


180  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

tions  of  fair  Euripus,  whose  billowy  mirror  reflects  the  two 
wayfarers,  who  are  passing  on  its  stony  beach ;  at  this  mo- 
ment I  behold  the  form  of  Varvouillya  crumpled  in  the 
wavelets  with  feet  still  swinging  to  and  fro  on  his  donkey. 

It  seems  but  a  short  blue  span  to  the  other  side  of  the 
strait  where  the  mountains  of  Euboea  rise  up,  snow-capped, 
dazzling  in  the  sun.  They  extend  northward  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  reach,  forming  a  kind  of  back-bone  to  the  island.  From 
the  summits  comes  a  chill  air,  when  no  current  of  wind  inter- 
feres from  another  direction.  A  thin,  narrow  cloud  lies  on 
the  side  of  the  mountain,  pulled  into  transparent  fibers,  like 
a  flock  of  wool ;  above  this  cloudlet  is  the  snowy  line  of  tops, 
no  longer  looking  like  marble  Gods  at  the  banquet  as  they 
did  yesterday,  but  rather  like  the  white  teeth  of  the  upturn- 
ed jaw  of  a  monster,  ready  to  snap  at  the  deities  of  the 
skies.  Far  above  all  the  other  summits  towers  the  monarch 
of  the  mountainous  realm — called  by  my  companion  Basili- 
con  or  the  Royal  Mount,  but  more  commonly  named  Delphi 
— richly  ornamented  on  his  sides  with  those  silvery  clouds, 
and  wearing  a  crown  made  of  flashing  snow-crystals  and  sun- 
beams. 

Above  our  heads  the  crows  are  flying ;  they  must  not  be 
forgotten,  the  naughty  crows  of  Greek  mockery.  Their  cry 
seems  somewhat  different  from  what  it  is  at  home ;  more 
garrulous,  querulous,  chattering,  spiteful.  In  irregular 
lines  they  streak  the  sky  beyond  the  mountains,  and  pass 
overhead  with  so  much  angry  disputation  that  they  must  be 
going  to  hold  a  congress  or  agora  somewhere  among  the  hills 
of  Boeotia.  The  crow  may  be  taken  as  a  comic  bird,  full  of 
caprice  and  infinite  noisy  loquacity — a  true  type  of  certain 
phases  of  Greek  rhetorical  volubility. 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis.  181 

As  we  skirt  round  the  shore  of  the  Euripus,  a  town  ap- 
pears off  to  the  left  several  miles,  lying  calmly  at  a  slight 
elevation  along  the  hill-side.  It  is  Oropus,  the  home  of  the 
merchant  Aristides,  and  of  the  schoolmaster  Aristoteles ;  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  pay  them  a  visit  and  take  you  along 
with  me  as  I  had  hoped ;  these  worthy  names  we  shall  have 
to  dismiss  from  our  Greek  journey.  In  antiquity  Oropus 
was  an  important  post  during  the  border  wars  between 
Athens  and  Thebes ;  in  modern  times  its  main  distinction  is 
derived  from  Takos  the  brigand  chief  who  stayed  here  sev- 
eral days  with  his  prisoners.  He  and  his  band  went  to 
church  while  in  the  town  on  Palm  Sunday,  and  like  good 
Christians  devoutly  performed  the  prescribed  rites ;  all  of 
them  obtained  branches  of  the  palm  from  the  hands  of  the 
priest,  and,  in  accordance  with  a  religious  custom  of  the 
country,  switched  one  another  for  good  luck  with  the  holy 
sprig.  Thus  they  thought  to  secure  the  favor  of  Heaven  for 
their  enterprise ;  but  despair  not,  ye  true  believers,  for  the 
ancient  Goddess  Nemesis  has  again  arisen,  angry,  inexora- 
ble,and  at  this  moment  is  silently  casting  her  net  from  these 
hills ;  the  Greek  soldiers  are  approaching  in  secrecy  and  have 
begun  to  surround  the  town. 

But  let  us  pass  by  the  work  of  the  Goddess  for  a  while, 
and  notice  this  plain  locked  in  by  hills,  of  oblong  shape  with 
the  sea  stretched  in  front.  It  is  fertile,  stubble  fields  dot  it 
here  and  there ;  it  brings  back  to  a  certain  degree  the  im- 
pression of  Marathon,  and  is  large  enough  to  maintain  quite 
a  community,  if  well  cultivated.  It  is  moreover  separated 
from  its  neighboring  plains  by  hill  and  sea,  giving  to  it  a 
certain  physical  independence,  which  anciently  was  supple- 
mented by  a  political  independence. 


182  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

This  fact  brings  up  the  reflection  which  has  often  been 
made  in  regard  to  the  geography  of  Greece,  that  it  shows 
the  character  of  the  Greek  people  as  distinctly  as  their  spirit- 
ual products.  But  to  the  traveler  these  natural  features  with 
their  strong  suggestions  become  a  living  presence  which 
moves  at  his  side  with  every  step,  and  gives  a  new  utterance 
at  each  passage  of  a  range  of  hills.  The  whole  country  is 
cut  up  into  plains  and  valleys  often  capable  of  high  cultiva- 
tion, separated  from  each  other  by  chains  of  mountains 
which  it  is  not  easy  to  pass.  If  you  could  look  down  into 
the  country  from  above  with  a  bird's  eye,  you  would  behold 
a  territory  hollowed  out  like  the  honeycomb,  with  cells  full 
of  honey,  ready  to  nourish  the  offspring  of  its  busy  bees. 
There  are  no  great  plains  like  the  valley  of  the  Euphrates  or 
the  Mississippi ;  the  Earth  is  roused  from  her  flat  indiffer- 
ence into  tender  embraces,  embosoming  these  clusters  of 
small  depressions ;  all  Greece,  you  would  say,  is  but  a 
group  of  rock-protected  bird's  nests,  being  in  antiquity 
mostly  those  of  nightingales. 

Just  in  this  physical  division  lies  the  image  of  the  leading 
trait  of  the  Greek  nation.  Each  of  these  separate  valleys  had 
its  own  town,  sometimes  several  of  them,  whose  strongest 
characteristic  was  autonomy  as  they  called  it,  that  is,  the 
right  of  governing  themselves  according  to  their  own  laws  and 
institutions.  Still  further,  each  of  these  communities  had  its 
own  special  forms  of  worship,  its  own  manners,  even  its  own 
costume,  and  it  sang  its  own  song.  Every  village  was,  there- 
fore, an  independent  whole  and  was  different  from  every 
other  village  in  Greece.  Such  was  the  boon  of  individual 
self-development,  now  born  into  the  world ;  yet  this  very 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis.  183 

boon  was  the  source  of  the  disunion  among  the  Greeks, 
which  at  last  caused  their  downfall. 

If  we  elevate  this  trait  into  an  expression  for  thought,  we 
may  call  it  individuality.  Thus,  primarily  the  Greek  terri- 
tory was  individualized ;  then  the  Greek  man  sought  a 
bodily  individuality  by  special  gymnastic  training ;  in  a  still 
higher  way  he  strove  for  a  spiritual  individuality  through  the 
Fine  Arts  and  Philosophy;  but  above  all  his  ideal  of  the 
State  was  a  political  individuality,  comprising  his  own  com- 
munity, with  full  autonomy. 

Here  then  Greece  stands  in  the  strongest  contrast  to  the 
Orient  with  its  immense  plains  capable  of  nourishing  millions 
of  toiling  bondmen,  equal  simply  in  servitude,  as  we  behold 
in  the  valley  of  the  Ganges,  Indus,  Euphrates,  Nile.  In 
them  is  the  natural  home  of  despotism,  where  man  is  as 
level,  low,  and  uniform  as  the  plain  which  he  tills.  These 
Greek  hills  enveloping  Marathon  will  not  permit  subjection  ; 
they  seek  to  shake  off  an  Oriental  sway  by  their  very  nature  ; 
nor  on  the  other  hand  will  they  suffer  a  dull  dead  equality 
among  the  people  dwelling  under  their  protecting  summits. 
In  such  a  land  freedom  can  be  born  and  cradled. 

But  the  march  of  empire  has  passed  from  the  far  East 
through  the  Greek  mountains  into  the  far  West,  and  in  this 
latter  territory  civilization  has  again  settled  down  into  a 
plain  vaster  than  any  in  the  Orient — the  valley  of  the  Missis- 
sippi. That  the  center  of  the  world's  culture  is  destined  to 
be  in  that  valley  at  some  period,  is  pretty  generally  conced- 
ed, even  in  Europe  ; — but  in  what  form?  The  Illinois  prai- 
rie merely  as  a  thing  of  nature,  means  despotism  as  much  as 
the  valley  of  the  Nile  ;  certainly  it  does  not  signify  freedom, 
as  is  sometimes  stated,  though  it  may  signify  equality,  the 


184  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

dead  equality  of  its  own  surface.  Therefore  for  us  arises 
this  question :  Are  the  institutions  of  man  so  far  developed 
that  they  can  overcome  this  gigantic  nature  and  convert  it 
into  a  perpetual  realm  of  freedom?  All  of  us  believe  that 
they  are  and  that  we  already  possess  these  very  institutions. 

But  notice  again  this  Greek  landscape  and  connect  it  with 
our  own ;  it  is  the  mediatorial  element  between  the  East  and 
the  West.  The  Greek  mountains  fought  at  Thermopylae  and 
Plataeae  quite  as  much  as  the  Greek  men.  That  vast  Orien- 
tal plain  pressing  down  over  the  land  like  an  iron  sky  was 
pierced  by  the  mountain  tops  of  Greece  .in  a  thousand 
points  and  shivered  to  atoms.  Nature  was  there  the  ally  of 
man,  nursed  him,  protected  him ;  consequently  her  visage  of 
freedom  was  taken  up  by  the  Greek  into  his  institutions, 
and  thus  has  become  the  possession  of  the  race  forever,  for 
institutions  are  the  abiding  element  of  the  World's  History. 
Yes,  though  the  assertion  seem  strange,  the  image  of  the 
Greek  landscape  has  come  down  to  us  in  America,  and  is 
the  chief  aid  in  solving  our  political  problem,  which  is  to 
combine  the  autonomy  of  the  Greek  world  with  the  territoiy 
of  the  Orient. 

But  the  second  leading  element  of  the  geographical  charac- 
ter of  Greece  must  not  be  omitted ;  here  it  is  at  our  feet  and 
is  seldom  out  of  our  sight — it  is  the  sea.  These  rocky  walls 
with  their  tendency  to  crystallize  into  a  solitary  exclusive- 
ness  are  broken  down  and  dissolved  by  the  sea.  Just  as 
you  behold  mountains  everywhere  in  Greece,  so  you  behold 
from  the  hights  almost  everywhere  the  sea.  What  the 
mountains  separate,  is  joined  by  the  infinite  number  of 
straits,  gulfs,  bays,  which  bite  into  the  coast  on  every  side. 
The  sea  is  indeed  the  world's  highway  and  the  world's  free- 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis.  185 

dom  ;  no  chains  can  be  laid  upon  it,  no  castle  can  command 
it,  no  robber  can  seize  it  and  lay  a  toll  upon  exchange 
though  it  be  as  free  to  the  pirate  as  to  anybody  else.  The 
old  Greek  belonged  quite  as  much  to  the  sea  as  to  the  land ; 
the  physical  character  of  the  one  gave  him  intercourse 
abroad,  the  physical  character  of  the  other  gave  him  inde- 
pendence at  home 

Suddenly  oar  reflections  are  stopped  by  the  banks  of  a 
stream,  muddy  and  swollen,  which  had  been  hitherto  hidden 
from  view  by  the  reeds  of  the  plain.  It  is  now  manifest  that 
we  did  well  in  lying  over  yesterday,  since  the  marks  of  much 
higher  water  than  the  present  stage  are  visible  in  the  tortu- 
ous line  of  sticks  and  scum  along  the  banks.  But  there  is 
still  a  strong  current  in  the  channel,  and  of  course  there  is 
no  bridge.  What  is  to  be  done  ?  Varvouillya  offers  one  of 
his  donkeys ;  but  I  am  not  willing  to  trust  myself  on  its  lit- 
tle low  back,  with  my  feet  quite  touching  the  water ;  more- 
over the  donkey  is  as  likely  to  be  swept  off  its  legs  or  fall  as 
I  am.  I  prefer  to  take  my  bath  alone,  if  such  is  to  be  my 
fate ;  accordingly  I  prepare  for  the  only  other  way — that  of 
fording. 

The  stream  is  the  famous  Asopus,  still  called  by  the  same 
name  as  in  antiquity.  Many  a  conflict  has  taken  place  along 
its  banks,  of  which  the  most  celebrated  was  the  battle  of 
Plataeae,  fought  farther  up  in  Boeotia.  It  is  ordinarily  a 
sluggish  reedy  stream,  fed  from  the  springs  and  snows  of 
Mount  Kithaeron,  yet  liable  to  rapid  rise  from  showers; 
armies  have  been  suddenly  stopped  on  its  banks  by  a  fall  of 
rain.  Attica  sought  to  make  this  stream  its  boundary  to- 
wards Boeotia,  hence  its  chief  historical  significance. 

Dignity  is  not  one  of  the  articles  which  the  traveler  must 


186  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

take  with  him  in  a  trip  through  Greece,  it  is  altogether  the 
most  burdensome  article  he  can  cany.  In  short,  I  pulled 
off  my  shoes,  tied  them  to  my  knapsack  like  a  true  pedes- 
trian, and  waded  into  classic  Asopus.  Mercy  on  us,  how 
cold  is  that  water !  Rightly  so,  for  it  is  largely  composed  of 
melted  snow  from  Mount  Kithaeron.  Then  too  the  sharp 
edge  of  a  pebble  presses  into  the  bare  flesh  of  the  foot, 
causing  the  wader  to  drop  quite  to  the  surface  of  the  stream, 
in  order  to  get  a  little  relief  from  that  unseen  enemy.  For 
crossing  we  had  selected  a  place  rather  wide  just  above  a 
swift  narrow  current,  correctly  surmising  that  it  was  the 
shallowest  and  least  rapid  point.  But  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  the  current  was  still  vigorous,  and  the  heels  became 
remarkably  light,  with  a  continual  tendency  to  fly  up  where 
the  head  was.  But  I  splashed  through  without  any  acci- 
dent, Varvouillya  came  out  safely,  and  the  donkeys  feeling 
their  way  with  unusual  care,  threw  back  their  long  ears  in 
great  astonishment  and  bravely  made  the  passage. 

So  we  forded  classic  Asopus,  and  were  exalted  to  a  trium- 
phant vein  by  its  success ;  it  was  indeed  a  memorable  feat  and 
in  memorable  company.  Thus,  thinks  the  enthusiastic  travel- 
er looking  back  at  the  boiling  current,  must  many  an  ancient 
hero  have  crossed  this  stream.  Those  Homeric  chieftains, 
on  their  way  from  Pelops'  isle  to  the  grand  muster  at  Aulis, 
whither  we  too  are  bound,  could  not  avoid  passing  here ; 
behold  them,  in  white  folds,  splashing  through  the  turbid 
waters ;  Agamemnon  himself,  king  of  men,  coming  up  from 
golden  Mycenae,  is,  you  can  plainly  see,  one  of  them. 

But  it  is  almost  an  absolute  certainty  that  Socrates,  not 
a  dialectician  on  the  streets  of  Athens  now,  but  a  heavy- 
armed  soldier  or  Hoplite  in  the  Athenian  ranks  marched 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis.  187 

through  this  plain  against  the  Theban  foe,  came  to  this  river 
and  had  to  wade  through  its  muddy  current.  But  the 
waters,  I  surmise,  did  in  no  way  cool  his  philosophic  ardor, 
though  they  were  of  melting  snow,  nor  did  they  prevent  him 
from  applying  his  all-subduing  elenchus  or  cross-examining 
thumb-screw  to  the  fellow-soldier  at  his  side,  the  tanner 
Hyperbolus,  there  just  in  the  middle  of  the  chilling  stream. 
But  onward  the  philosopher  marches  bravely  and  disputes, 
till  late  one  afternoon  his  countrymen  are  consummately 
whipped  by  those  whom  they  call  swinish  Thebans,  on 
on  the  field  of  Delium.  The  philosopher  too  is  defeated  in 
spite  of  his  elenchus ;  for  what  good  will  the  dialectical  in- 
strument now  do,  brandished  in  the  faces  of  angry  Thebans 
ranked  twenty-five  spears  deep?  The  philosopher  had  to 
run,  run  like  the  rest  of  his  people,  and  run  hard  too — yet 
after  showing  prodigies  of  valor,  as  was  always  said  by  his 
enthusiastic  friends  narrating  the  occurence.  Indeed  it  was 
the  first  time  that  he  was  ever  compelled  to  turn  his  back  on 
the  face  of  a  foe ;  these  are  manifestly  none  of  those  foes  of 
the  market-place,  whom  he  never  failed  to  make  shout  in 
excruciating  contradiction  by  the  torture  of  his  thumb- 
screw. 

Thus  Socrates  the  philosopher  returns  to  classic  Asopus 
in  a  great  hurry,  much  greater  than  when  he  crossed  it 
going  forward  to  Delium.  Sometime  in  the  night  he  must 
have  arrived  here ;  without  hesitation  he  dashed  into  the  cur- 
rent wrapped  in  demon-breeding  darkness,  possibly  behold- 
ing at  his  -back  phantasms  of  Thebans  in  angry  pursuit ; 
other  soldiers  that  I  know  of  have  had  a  tendency  to  behold 
similar  phantasms  under  similar  circumstances.  At  least 
the  probability  is  that  this  time  he  did  not  stop  a  moment  in 


188  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

the  middle  of  the  stream,  nor  can  we  imagine  him  now  draw- 
ing out  that  wonderful  instrument  of  his  in  order  to  use  it 
upon  his  neighbor  who  is  evidently  in  as  great  a  hurry  as 
himself.  Still  destiny  bids  that  the  philosopher  be  pre- 
served ;  hereafter  we  shall  hear  of  him  at  Athens  when  this 
night's  hurried  tramp  is  over;  not  by  thrust  of  Theban  • 
spear  or  by  a  watery  death  in  the  Asopus  shall  he  perish,  but 
by  the  cup  of  hemlock — rather  the  most  glorious  death  after 
that  one  other,  which  has  yet  been  recorded.  But  what  the 
philosophic  consciousness  was  evolving  in  the  shadowy  night 
when  the  plunge  was  made  into  the  chilly  waters  is  some- 
thing which  we  all  would  like  to  know. 

Varvouillya  gets  ready  to  go  forward  while  I  continue  to 
exult  in  the  victory  over  the  river-god :  whereat  the  yellow- 
haired  divinity  seems  to  grow  more  angiy  in  his  turbulent 
tossings  and  writhings  at  my  feet.  Two  pedestrians, 
Greeks,  come  to  the  opposite  bank  while  we  are  waiting, 
and  attempt  the  passage.  One  of  them  in  white  fustanella, 
insists  upon  trying  where  the  current  is  narrow  but  swift, 
notwithstanding  the  warnings  of  Varvouillya.  The  water 
dashes  around  his  naked  calves,  he  begins  to  back  out,  but 
it  is  too  late,  his  feet  are  whirled  up  by  the  current  and 
he  falls  with  a  splash,  down  he  floats  on  the  surface  of 
the  stream.  With  violent  gestures  he  seeks  to  rescue  him- 
self, and  is  soon  washed  up  against  a  muddy  shrub  which  he 
catches  hold  of  and  crawls  out  on  the  bank.  "What  now 
shall  we  say  to  the  shining  white  fustanella  after  a  bath  in 
turbid  Asopus  and  a  couch  upon  its  alluvial  banks?  He 
looks  like  some  ancient  statue,  just  dug  up  from  its  earthy 
bed,  and  now  for  the  first  time  since  many  centuries  exposed 
to  sunlight,  revealing  many  a  stain  in  the  soiled  marble. 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis.  189 

The  angry  river-god  has  shown  his  power,  but  not  upon  our 
company ;  so  we  still  exult  with  mingled  pity  for  our  less 
lucky  fellow  mortal. 

The  unfortunate  man  had  in  his  hand  a  bundle  which  is 
now  gaily  dancing  down  the  surface  of  the  stream,  till  at  last 
it  is  fished  out  by  his  companion.  Still  he  lies  there  on  the 
bank  in  white  fustanella,  not  so  white  now — the  joyless 
Greek,  that  stained  piece  of  marble,  sunning  himself — wait- 
ing perchance  for  Apollo  to  instil  into  him  courage  sufficient 
to  attempt  the  passage  a  second  time.  Then  both  of  them, 
with  some  trepidation  to  be  sure,  ford  the  river  successfully 
under  the  direction  of  Varvouillya,  just  where  we  had  cross- 
ed it.  They  turn  out  to  be  two  small  traders  who  are  also 
going  to  Chalkis  for  Monday's  bazaar. 

Now  we  begin  the  journey  anew,  six  of  us  together,  four 
men  and  two  donkeys.  These  small,  patient  animals  again 
attract  my  sympathy  and  admiration ;  I  have  told  you  a  lit- 
tle about  them  before,  but  not  by  any  means  enough,  judg- 
ing them  by  their  importance.  Calmly  they  pass  before  us, 
heavy-eyed,  much  enduring,  with  their  long  ears  now  erect, 
now  dropping  backwards ;  they  have  the  appearance  of  over- 
grown rabbits,  moving  in  single  files  through  the  bushes. 
Their  thin  legs  twirl  so  quickly,  with  such  a  dainty  trip  that 
there  is  a  kind  of  dance  in  their  tread,  two  of  them  now 
stepping  in  chorus ;  still  they  can  never  be  brought  to  a  trot. 
The  donkey  has,  in  proportion  to  his  body,  a  large  head, 
which  is  necessaiy  to  contain  his  enormous  gift  of  obstinacy. 
But  it  is  the  eye  which  is  the  most  characteristic  thing  about 
him,  showing  power  but  indifference ;  out  of  it  he  has  a  look 
of  oriental  resignation  to  the  will  of  fate;  let  come  what 
comes,  is  his  motto,  I  am  going  to  remain  a — donkey.  But 


190  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

that  fate  is  now  behind  him,  ever  ready  to  overtake  him,  in 
the  shape  of  a  long  gad  in  the  hands  of  Varvouillya  who  un- 
mercifully belabors  the  poor  beast  of  destiny.  Still  the 
donkey  takes  it  all,  as  a  matter  of  course,  squirms  a  little, 
possibly  steps  for  a  moment  with  a  quicker  gait,  then  settles 
down  into  his  old  tread  with  a  complete  resignation  to  the 
strokes  of  fate.  Out  of  his  spare  flesh  a  bone  protrudes  at 
the  haunch,  covered  with  a  very  thin  coat  of  hair,  but  made 
callous  by  blows  from  aforetime ;  upon  that  protruding 
bone  Varvouillya  directs  his  strokes  with  a  vigor  of  arm  and 
certainty  of  aim  which  at  first  make  me  shiver ;  but  I  soon 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was  hurt  worse  than  the  ani- 
mal, and  so  began  to  stop  wasting  my  emotional  nature.  In- 
difference to  the  blows  of  destiny  is  the  prime  fact  of  the 
donkey. 

A  curious  incident  now  began  enacting  itself  under  my 
eyes :  our  two  new  companions  also  started  to  drive  the 
donkeys.  So  those  three  men  passed  along  the  highway, 
grunting,  yelling  and  beating  the  two  little  animals,  which 
courageously  performed  their  part  of  obstinacy.  The  stran- 
gers were  quite  as  zealous  in  their  new  duties  as  Varvouillya 
himself  who  accepted  their  assistance  as  a  matter  of  course. 
This,  then,  I  infer  to  be  one  of  the  customs  of  the  country: 
when  you  meet  a  man  on  the  road  you  must  show  your  good 
will  by  helping  him  drive  his  donkeys.  Moreover  the  Greek 
driver  has  a  peculiar  language  in  his  dealings  with  his  charge, 
which  with  much  philological  curiosity  the  traveler  will  at 
once  set  about  learning.  It  is  mainly  composed  of  a  great 
variety  of  grunts,  all  of  which  have  been  handed  down  from 
the  ancients,  I  hold,  like  everything  which  the  exhilarated 
vision  beholds  in  Greece ;  for  instance,  to  stop  is  a  grunt 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis.  191 

with  the  falling  inflection ;  to  go  on  is  a  grunt  with  the  rising 
inflection ;  to  turn  aside  is  a  double  grunt  with  an  aspirate. 
This  tongue  has  a  number  of  delicate  shadings,  all  indicated 
by  the  grant.  I  might  be  asked  to  give  you  some  practical 
illustration  of  the  language,  but  I  find  that  I  can  no  longer 
catch  the  true  Attic  accent  of  those  sounds. 

Thus  we  wound  along  the  white  edge  of  the  blue  silken 
ribbon  of  Euripus,  flashing  in  the  sunlight  and  rolling  gentle 
wavelets  which  break  at  our  feet.  Sometimes  the  waters 
would  move  out  of  sight,  when  we  entered  a  thicket  or  pass- 
ed behind  a  hill ;  but  soon  they  would  leap  into  view  again 
with  a  laugh.  But,  would  you  believe  it  ?  Such  is  the  pow- 
er of  human  example,  and  the  absorbing  fascination  of  this 
Greek  climate — not  an  hour  had  passed  before  I  too  began 
driving  the  donkeys  with  the  others.  I  even  caught  myself 
raising  my  staff  to  give  the  blow  of  destiny  to  the  perverse 
little  beast  which  had  stopped  just  in  the  path  before  me 
without  any  perceptible  cause.  But  Pallas  Athena  held  my 
arm,  and  Varvouillya  anticipated  me  with  his  long  gad.  Yet 
in  speech  I  falter  not,  I  practice  with  diligence  the  new  lan- 
guage, and  try  to  imagine  what  ancient  worthy  could  have 
done  the  same  thing  in  the  same  place.  So  all  four  of  us 
pass  along  the  road,  grunting,  shouting,  and  talking  to  the 
music  of  the  beautiful  blue  Euripus  which  rolls  at  our  feet. 

Our  company  approaches  Delisi,  ancient  Delium,  now  a 
small  poor  hamlet,  but  once  it  shone  with  a  temple  of  Apollo 
lying  at  the  edge  of  the  sea  and  viewing  white-  graceful 
forms  of  column  and  frieze  in  the  tranquil  waters.  To  the 
rear  of  it  is  a  low  succession  of  hills  enclosing  a  small  plain ; 
somewhere  upon  these  hills  the  battle  of  Delium  must  have 
been  fought,  now  chiefly  famous  on  account  of  the  presence 


192  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

Socrates.  A  very  unimportant  fact  at  that  time,  merely  one 
Hoplite  in  the  Athenian  ranks,  but  now  the  best-known  inci- 
dent of  the  battle :  thus  do  great  men  often  lend  to  events 
their  whole  distinction.  Still  there  is  another  and  far  deep- 
er meaning  to  the  struggle  at  Delium  than  the  accidental 
presence  of  the  philosopher ;  for  this  combat  is  typical,  and 
gives  an  image  of  all  Greece  at  its  date.  It  is  the  time  of 
the  Peloponnesian  War  and  the  Greek  world  is  perishing 
through  internal  dissolution;  formerly  it  had  united  and 
maintained  itself  against  the  external  power  of  Persia,  but 
now  it  has  turned  its  hand  against  itself  and  is  in  process  of 
being  destroyed  from  within.  Such  is  the  great  transition 
of  Greek  history — just  this  transition  from  the  plains  of 
Marathon  to  the  hills  of  Delium ;  the  sympathetic  traveler 
will  leave  the  former  with  the  triumphal  notes  of  victory  still 
ringing  in  his  ears,  but  he  will  pass  the  latter  rent  by  an  in- 
ward sorrow  and  dissonance,  premonitions  of  Hellenic  decay 
and  dissolution. 

This  result  sprang  from  the  extreme  application  of  the 
fundamental  Greek  principle — the  principle  of  autonomy. 
With  it  alone,  in  its  one-sidedness  the  political  unity  of  the 
Hellenic  race  was  impossible ;  a  thousand  limits  were  thus 
created,  and  were  perpetually  rasping  against  one  another. 
Hence  these  independent  communities,  left  to  themselves 
and  without  the  fear  of  any  external  power,  began  to  grind 
in  violent  struggle.  For  wherever  there  is  limitation,  there 
is  sure  to  be  conflict;  both  men  and  states  are  impatient 
under  restraints.  Now  if  we,  with  that  bird's  eye.  look 
down  again  from  above  into  the  honeycomb  of  Greece,  we 
shall  behold  all  the  little  cells  in  fierce  agitation;  each  is 
trying  to  burst  its  bonds  or  maintain  them  against  some  in- 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis. 

trader.  Then  these  small  communities  group  themselves 
around  two  leaders,  Athens  and  Sparta,  though  not  without 
many  jealousies,  bickerings  and  acts  of  violence.  Still 
further  this  dualism  of  headship  enters  every  village  and 
splits  it  into  two  bitter  factions.  What  now  has  become  of 
that  harmonious  Greek  world  with  its  nests  of  nightingales  ? 
Terrific  discord,  with  the  screams  of  vultures  has  succeeded 
— of  which  one  echo  is  still  resting  on  these  hills  of  Delium. 
Now  if  we  wish  to  grasp  in  our  thought  the  deep-seated 
source  of  this  calamitous  outcome  of  the  Hellenic  world,  we 
must  see  what  is  lacking  in  the  Greek  consciousness,  especi- 
ally in  the  Greek  political  consciousness.  This  may  be  ex- 
pressed in  one  word :  Recognition.  The  Greek  community 
would  not,  or  indeed  could  not,  recognize  the  right  of  its 
neighbor  to  be  just  as  good,  nay,  to  be  just  the  same  as  its 
own  right.  It  could  not  see  that  if  it  destroyed  the  auton- 
omy of  the  little  town  next  to  it,  it  was  destroying  the  princi- 
ple of  its  own  autonomy.  It  was  a  most  jealous  lover  of  its 
own  freedom,  but  not  of  its  neighbor's  freedom;  but  the 
truth  of  logic  and  history  is  that  the  freedom  of  its  neighbor 
which  it  trampled  underfoot,  was  at  bottom  its  own  freedom. 
It  lacked  recognition,  yet  there  were  far-off  glimmerings  of 
the  principle ;  in  fact  this  principle  seemed  once  on  the  point 
of  realization  in  the  Achaean  League.  But  Greece  was  then 
dying,  and  it  never  had  the  insight  practically  that  right  is 
universal,  belongs  to  all  equally,  and  that  the  nation  which 
violates  it  in  another  is  violating  it  in  itself.  For  it  is 
thus  doing  a'deed  which  must  return  to  itself,  and  is  prepar- 
ing itself  for  retribution  through  its  own  act.  Nemesis  for 
the  individual  the  Greeks  believed  in,  for  we  have  already 


194  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

seen  temples  to  that  Goddess,  but  they  knew  no  Nemesis 
for  the  State. 

It  is  not  difficult,  with  the  modern  world  and  our  own 
form  of  government  before  our  eyes,  to  point  out  the  solu- 
tion of  the  Greek  political  problem.  It  was  the  Confeder- 
acy with  constitution  and  paramount  governmental  powers, 
whose  object  would  be  to  remove  the  narrow  pinching  limits 
on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  to  preserve  the  full  inter- 
nal autonomy  of  the  community.  Thus  the  small  state 
would  be  all  Greece,  yet  it  would  remain  itself.  One  half, 
perhaps  the  nobler  half,  the  Greek  seized  fully  and  carried 
out,  namely  communal  freedom,  local  self-government,  as 
we  call  it.  But  the  other  half  does  not  belong  to  his  con- 
sciousness, had  not  yet  risen  in  the  consciousness  of  the 
world ;  twenty  centuries  of  struggle  were  to  elapse  before  it 
could  be  realized.  His  political  system  perished  because  it 
was  a  half,  because  it  was  limited  to  the  boundaries  of  his 
own  little  state — for  it  is  the  law  of  existence  that  only  the 
whole  can  endure. 

The  battle  of  Delium  was  fought  between  the  Thebans  and 
Athenians,  two  Greek  neighbors  who  ought  to  have  lived 
harmoniously  together.  It  may  be  taken  as  an  image  of  a 
hundred  combats  during  that  wretched  war,  and  it  illustrates 
what  was  transpiring  on  nearly  every  boundary  between  the 
communities  of  Greece.  It  is  therefore  a  type  reflecting 
much,  if  we  look  into  its  depths  and  gather  its  true  meaning ; 
though  so  distant  in  time,  it  still  seems  to  throw  these  hills 
into  discordant  undulations.  But  it  is  net  the  only  disso- 
nance heard  upon  this  spot,  there  is  a  modern  note  of  horror 
here  which  strangely  mingles  with  that  ancient  clangor  of 
arms. 


From  3farcopoulo  to  Aulis.  •  195 

Varvouillya  suddenly  halted  his  mules  near  a  clump  of 
bushes  along  the  road ;  he  took  from  the  saddle  a  k*nd  of 
haversack  filled  with  bread  and  cheese,  and  prepared  lunch, 
for  it  was  already  past  noon.  Our  two  new  companions 
were  invited  to  partake  with  us,  and  were  not  behind  us  in 
their  appreciation  of  the  frugal  meal.  When  it  had  ended, 
Varvouillya  rose  in  silence  and  walked  a  few  yards  away, 
then  he  turned  and  called  to  me:  "Here  the  English  lord 
was  killed.  Yonder  another  was  found  murdered.  Over 
that  low  hill  Takos  came  from  the  direction  of  Oropus  with 
his  captives,  pursued  by  the  Greek  soldiers.  When  he  found 
that  he  could  not  escape  with  his  prisoners,  he  killed  two 
here  and  two  further  up."  Saying  this,  the  speaker  stood  in 
silence,  as  if  lost  for  a  moment  in  revery,  nor  did  the  two 
companions  manifest  a  desire  to  say  anything  about  the  af- 
fair on  this  spot,  though  they  showed  that  they  knew  all 
about  it  from  beginning  to  end.  It  may  be  my  own  fancy, 
but  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  they  were  touched  with  a 
slight  terror. 

But  such  is  the  final  act  of  the  drama ;  that  capture  near 
Pentelicus,  which  was  at  first  supposed  to  be  a  comedy,  has 
turned  out  a  tragedy  of  the  bloodiest  kind.  When  the  pris- 
oners had  been  assassinated  in  cold  blood,  the  approaching 
soldiers  opened  fire  upon  the  brigands ;  the  brother  of  Takos 
with  seven  of  the  band  were  slain,  and  four  others  were  ta- 
ken prisoners ;  Takos  himself  with  ten  of  the  band  escaped , 
some  of  whom  were  afterwards  caught,  and  executed. 

This  event  has  injured  Greece  more  than  all  her  other 
faults  and  misdeeds  put  together ;  yet  it  is  hard  to  see  how  the 
Greek  government  can  be  blamed  for  the  occurrence.  Cer- 
tainly it  tried  to  prevent  the  crime  and  punish  the  criminals ; 


196  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

the  band  did  not  belong  within  the  borders  of  Greece,  and  had 
been  hunted  from  place  to  place  by  Gree,k  soldiers  before 
Takos  suddenly  appeared  at  Pentelicus.  The  chief  reproach 
which  can  be  cast  upon  it  is,  that  it  paid  too  much  attention 
to  English  advice.  Yet  it  is  chiefly  the  English  press  and  the 
English  government  which  have  sown  this  unjust  judgement 
through  the  world.  Greece  was  called  in  the  newspapers 
and  was  treated  as  a  nation  of  brigands,  in  spite  of  the  most 
evident  facts  to  the  contraiy.  Over  one  hundred  peasants 
and  shepherds  were  arrested  for  having  furnished  aid  or  in- 
formation to  the  band ;  two  English  barristers  were  sent 
from  London  to  watch  the  proceedings — a  piece  of  bullying 
the  more  reprehensible  on  account  of  the  weakness  and  em- 
barrassment of  poor  Greece.  Most  of  the  arrested  persons 
were  acquitted  on  account  of  a  total  want  of  evidence 
against  them ;  a  few  were  sentenced  to  various  degrees  of 
punishment.  Such  was  the  action  of  the  Greek  govern- 
ment. 

It  must  be  granted,  on  the  other  hand,  that  there  had  been 
too  much  toleration  of  brigandage  among  a  portion  of  the 
Greek  peasants,  and  that  some  of  them  had  a  tendency  to 
turn  brigand  with  good  opportunity.  The  effect  of  Turkish 
oppression  which  drove  the  strong  man  to  outlawry  and  the 
weak  man  to  passive  submission  to  wrong,  may  not  have 
wholly  ceased  under  a  free  government.  But  this  occurrence 
has  wrought  a  change.  When  the  peasant  saw  his  neighbor 
taken  from  home  and  brought  to  trial  for  having  aided  a  bri- 
gand, his  ideas  of  justice  and  duty  underwent  a  revolution. 
He  felt  that  a  terrible  unseen  power  was  on  the  track  of  the 
evil  doer,  and  as  has  been  already  stated,  he  came  to  believe 
again  in  a  Nemesis  who  pursues  the  wicked  act.  Some  such 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis.  197 

feeling,  vague  and  dark,  yet  real,  the  traveler  will  come  in 
contact  with  among  the  people.  It  is  healthy — let  the  Gods 
be  again  believed  in,  though  they  be  not  worshiped  as  of 
old. 

But  wherever  a  wrong  has  been  done,  there  must  follow 
the  penalty ;  if  England  has  been  guilty  of  injustice,  Nemes- 
is will  be  upon  her,  for  the  Goddess  is  universal  in  her  sway, 
and  not  merely  for  the  Greeks.  So  it  turned  out :  the  worst 
compromised  man,  the  only  man  of  social  standing,  and  the 
sole  educated  man  among  those  arrested  for  abetting  the 
brigands,  was  an  Englishman,  son  of  the  proprietor  of  an  ex- 
tensive estate  in  Euboea.  Shall  we  then  say  that  English 
gentlemen  are  supporters  of  brigands  ?  Not  by  any  means  ; 
but  let  them  not  make  this  charge  against  the  Greeks  on 
such  grounds ;  if  it  be  unjust,  Nemesis  will  bring  it  home  to 
themselves.  For  the  Goddess  has  arisen  once  more,  and  in 
swift  anger  is  determined  to  requite  the  guilty  act,  by  whom- 
soever it  be  committed. 

Such  is  Delium  with  its  two  jarring  notes,  an  ancient  and 
a  modern  one,  both  indicating  the  deep-seated  discordant 
throes  of  their  respective  epochs.  But  let  us  flee  from  these 
horrible  dissonances  and  follow  the  donkeys  into  some  har- 
monious spot ;  they  are  now  passing  over  a  line  of  low  hills 
covered  with  brushwood.  Even  among  the  brambles  there 
is  the  interest  of  a  delightful  antiquity,  for  all  of  these  bush- 
es and  plants  have  been  fragrantly  preserved  in  classical  po- 
etry. Here  is  the  arbute  known  to  readers  of  Theocritus 
and  Virgil  with  its  bright  red  berry  resembling  the  straw- 
berry in  look  but  not  in  taste ;  sometimes  it  is  called 
the  strawberry  tree.  The  schinos  or  wild  mastic — not  the 
aromatic  mastic  of  Chios  so  much  used  in  the  East  for  its 


198  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

fragrance — is  here  with  its  ancient  name  still,  just  as  it  was 
uttered  by  the  Sicilian  shepherd ;  its  leaves  are  employed  for 
tanning,  according  to  my  informant,  one  of  the  new  comers. 
Pine  grows  in  abundance,  often  chipped  for  its  resinous  ooze 
to  put  into  the  recinato ;  a  species  of  scrub-oak  is  very  com- 
mon— yet  there  are  no  tall  trees  making  a  forest.  One  of 
my  companions  tells  me  the  names  and  uses  of  the  various 
shrubs ;  to  my  special  delight  he  points  out  the  wild  olive,  on 
which  the  tame  one  is  grafted  to  produce  the  hardy  tree. 
Who  can  forget  that  it  was  one  of  the  trees  which  furnished 
cover  to  Ulysses,  asleep,  after  his  shipwreck  near  the  Phea- 
cian  isle,  and  from  whose  concealment  he  came  forth  to 
greet  fair  Nausicaa?  So  every  bush,  every  flower  has,  be- 
sides its  native  virtues,  the  delicious  fragrance  of  old  Greek 
poetry  which  rises  up  like  incense  from  these  green  hills. 

Since  I  am  trying  to  take  you  with  me,  I  must  not  allow 
you  even  at  the  risk  of  repetition,  to  lose  from  your  view 
the  mountains,  besnowed  above  and  green  below,  that  always 
accompany  us  just  across  in  Euboea.  There  is  still  that  thin 
flock  of  translucent  cloud,  bound  immovably  to  the  brow  of 
the  range,  while  above  its  tattered  strip  the  white  summits 
point  upwards  on  which  the  snow  is  sparkling  in  the 
sunbeams ;  silvery  garments  with  golden  lining  apparel  the 
hights  in  regal  magnificence — you  will  say  before  you  can. 
get  the  sentiments  fully  under  control.  Soon  again  we  come 
out  of  the  brushwood  to  the  Euripus  growing  bluer  in  the 
deeper  haze  of  the  afternoon,  yet  with  the  same  tremulous 
play  of  the  wavelets  rolling  against  the  beach.  The  moun- 
tains and  the  waters  have  gone  along  with  us  all  day — hun- 
dreds of  times  the  traveler  looks  at  them  with  the  same  fresh 
delight  and  wonders  if  he  cannot  in  some  manner  carry  them 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis.  199 

with   him   forever.     Glance   at  them,  once   more  and  turn 
away. 

From  early  morning  I  have  walked,  helping  to  drive  the 
two  donkeys — no  small  labor ;  Varvouillya  now  repeats  his 
invitation  to  ride.  This  time  I  accept,  for  I  must  confess 
to  growing  weary.  He  gives  me  the  smaller  and  more  tract- 
able of  the  two  donkeys ;  it  has  no  bridle  or  halter  or  head- 
gear of  any  kind  whereby  it  can  be  directed,  but  it 
patiently  follows  the  other  and  elder  donkey  upon  which 
Varvouillya  himself  is  mounted,  swinging  his  feet.  Our  two 
companions  have  fallen  behind  and  we  are  again  alone. 
With  an  easy  spring  one  lights  in  the  saddle,  that  Greek 
saddle,  very  comfortable  and  convenient,  though  very  awk- 
ward. There  I  sit  sidewise,  swinging  my  feet  also,  often 
thrusting  my  heels  back  into  the  flanks  of  the  animal  and 
grunting  out  commands  in  imitation  of  Varvouillya ;  at  all  of 
which  the  donkey  would  merely  lay  back  his  ears  and  move 
just  as  slow  as  before.  But  he  felt  the  increased  burden, 
and  began  to  meditate  how  to  get  rid  of  it.  Wherever  there 
was  a  bush  or  limb  along  the  way,  he  was  certain  to  rub  as 
close  to  it  as  possible.  The  first  two  or  three  times  I  might 
have  forgiven  as  accidental,  but  by  the  repeated  brushings  I 
received  when  there  was  no  necessity,  I  was  forced  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  rascal  was  trying  to  scrape  me  off.  He 
had  a  great  advantage  over  me,  as  he  was  without  bridle  or 
halter ;  the  only  thing  I  could  do  was  to  lean  down  from  the 
scaffolding  of  the  saddle  and  box  his  long  ears  in  the  right 
direction.  '  Then  with  what  supreme  innocence  he  would  lay 
them  back,  till  in  fact  I  would  feel  ashamed  of  myself,  as 
having  done  him  a  wrong.  But  at  last  he  did  catch  me ;  he 
was  taking  me  straight  into  a  thorn-bush,  there  was  no 


200  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

escape,  I  whirled  and  sprang  off  on  the  other  side,  with  con- 
siderable agility,  I  thought.  Then  for  the  first  time  during 
the  day,  I  was  going  to  declare,  during  my  whole  life,  I  saw 
a  donkey  run.  It  was  a  clear  confession  of  guilt  on  his 
part. 

But  Varvouillya  was  soon  after  him  with  the  gad  of  des- 
tiny, and  his  meek  eyes  at  once  showed  complete  resignation 
to  the  decree  of  fate,  and  to  the  burden  of  my  body.  Now 
if  you  can  bring  before  you  the  two  small  donkeys,  patiently 
stepping  along,  the  one  behind  the  other,  with  the  two  riders 
listlessly  sitting  sidewise,  and  swinging  their  feet,  you  will 
have  an  image  of  our  cavalcade  as  late  one  afternoon  amid  a 
golden  languor  of  classic  sunbeams  it  entered  the  village  of 
Vathy,  lying  on  the  harbor  of  ancient  Aulis.  Varvouillya 
halted|  before  a  wineshop  where  we  were  to  remain  for  the 
night;  the  people  of  the  town,  mostly  Albanian,  flocked 
around  us  in  a  white  throng  of  fustanellas;  Varvouillya 
seemed  to  know  everybody. 

Although  it  be  just  a  touch  of  self-praise,  to  which  you 
will  have  to  get  used  at  intervals,  I  am  compelled  to  say 
that  the  old  fellow  appeared  to  be  proud  of  his  companion. 
He  was  at  first  astonished  to  see  me  persist  in  walking — 
gentlemen  in  Greece  usually  ride,  he  said  ;  but  when  I  ford- 
ed the  Asopus,  I  had  taken  a  lofty  place  in  his  esteem. 
That  a  man  who  talked  high  Greek  and  read  books  should 
go  in  such  fashion  over  the  country,  was  something  quite 
unheard  of.  "  Yet,"  said  he,  "  that  is  the  only  way  to  find 
out  any  thing  about  us.  Those  gentlemen  who  rush  rapidly 
through  the  land  on  horseback,  know  nothing  of  our  peo- 
ple." I  was  glad  to  have  such  a  sensible  approval  of  my 
way  of  traveling. 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis.  201 

Then  Varvouillya  exhibited  me  in  that  place  to  the  aston- 
ished multitude,  with  extravagant  phrases  making  them  be- 
lieve that  I  had  lately  arrived  from  the  moon.  We  went  up 
the  road  on  a  visit  through  the  village,  a  crowd  followed  in 
a  long  train,  little  children  peeped  around  the  corners  of  the 
houses  at  the  stranger  in  Frankish- garments,  wives  with 
babes  in  their  arms  glanced  through  the  half-opened  doors, 
peasants  returning  from  the  fields  stopped  their  beasts  of 
burden  in  the  street,  and  eagerly  inquired:  Who  is  it? 
What  is  it?  The  people  were  bringing  me  to  the  wonder  of 
their  village,  an  old  man,  formerly  a  sailor,  who  spoke 
Italian  well  and  a  little  English,  but  the  latter  tongue  he  had 
about  forgotten.  I  found  the  Nestor  of  the  hamlet  at  his 
hearth  sitting  in  his  arm-chair — a  man  who  had  seen  all 
parts  of  the  world,  and  whose  talk  was  full  of  experience 
and  a  natural  wisdom.  He  possessed  also  a  quiet  humor 
which  would  suddenly  dash  through  the  wrinkles  of  his  face, 
lighting  up  its  aged  furrows  with  a  glow  like  that  of  the 
phosphorescent  sea  in  the  wake  of  his  ship.  After  many  an 
adventure  he  has  returned  to  his  native  town  and  is  here  pass- 
ing a  sunny  old  age — sunny  with  good  reason,  for  at  his  side 
is  now  sitting  a  young  Greek  wife  with  a  babe  in  her  arms. 
No,  he  is  not  old — there  is  no  old  age  in  Iphigenia's  Aulis. 
But  I  must  be  off ;  after  drinking  of  his  hospitable  wine  and 
at  request  exchanging  names,  I  find  my  way  back  to  the 
wineshop  without  Varvouillya,  who  has  gone  to  take  care  of 
his  donkeys.  There  also  generous  citizens  insist  upon  my 
taking  with  them  a  draught  of  recinato  ;  I  return  the  friend- 
ly bumper,  then  slip  out  the  back-door  and  wander  off  alone 
in  the  dusk  to  the  sea  side  which  is  not  far  away.  There  I 
sit  down  at  the  edge  of  the  water. 


202  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

Here,  then,  is  the  bay  of  Aulis  where  the  Greek  fleet  as- 
sembled for  the  expedition  to  Troy.  The  Euripus  forms  at 
this  point  quite  a  large  quadrangular  basin,  protected  by 
hills ;  in  the  center  of  the  basin  rises  an  island,  rounded  off 
to  the  full  firm  swell  of  a  virginal  breast,  on  the  top  of 
which  one  places,  in  defiance  of  the  antiquarians,  the  temple 
of  the  chaste  huntress  Artemis,  and  the  sacrifice  of  the 
young  virgin  Iphigenia.  The  sparkling  water  at  one  time 
plays  over  a  sandy  beach,  at  another  time  it  hides  itself 
under  projecting  rocks  which  have  been  eaten  away  under- 
neath by  the  ceaseless  nibbling  of  the  waves.  One  can  still 
see  in  the  dusk  the  ancient  heroes  bringing  up  their  dark 
ships  alongside  of  this  protending  rock,  and  then  leaping  on 
shore,  in  order  to  go  to  the  tent  of  the  chieftain  for  impor- 
tant deliberation.  Achilles,  the  type  of  eternal  youth,  who 
prefers  dying  young  with  enduring  glory  to  passing  an  un- 
glorious  life  in  his  own  country,  has  left  his  aged  father 
Peleus  in  his  Phthian  home  on  the  banks  of  the  Spercheios 
and  has  arrived,  not  unwilling  to  meet  the  hour  when  he 
must  die,  but  thus  live  forever ;  Ulysses,  the  man  of  intelli- 
gence, hence  the  man  who  has  to  endure,  gifted  with  infinite 
subtlety  and  just  for  that  reason  meshed  in  infinite  struggle, 
has  left  behind  a  young  wife  and  child  in  sunny  Ithaca,  and 
has  come  to  give  his  wisdom  to  the  expedition ;  Nestor,  the 
white-haired  eloquent  sage  of  the  Greeks,  from  whose 
tongue  words  dropped  sweeter  than  honey,  who  had  lived 
three  generations  of  men,  and  is  therefore  old  enough  to  stay 
at  home,  is  also  present,  with  his  two  sons,  having  come  all 
the  way  from  sandy  Pylos  to  join  the  great  Hellenic  enter- 
prise. Youth  and  age,  bravery  and  wisdom  are  all  repre- 


From  Marcopoulo  to  Aulis.  203 

sented — and  now  flit  in  white  robes  through  the  palpitating 
twilight. 

And  what  is  this  trouble  about?  Helen  the  most  beauti- 
ful woman  of  Greece  has  been  carried  away  to  Troy ;  but 
the  East  shall  not  have  her — such  is  the  universal  shout  of 
Hellas,  of  its  old  and  its  young,  of  its  wisdom  and  its  valor. 
Now  the  chieftains  are  assembled,  preparing  to  attempt  the 
heroic  work  of  recovery;  they  have  quit  their  country, 
have  left  behind  in  many  cases  their  own  wives  and  little 
ones — a  chaste  Penelope  and  an  infant  Telemachus — in 
other  words  have  given  up  State  and  Family,  for  the  sake  of 
runaway  Helen,  of  dubious  fame  but  of  surpassing  beauty. 
Still  it  is  a  national  undertaking,  altogether  the  most  nation- 
al undertaking  of  the  Greeks,  for  they  were  more  united  in 
the  expedition  to  Troy  than  they  were  in  driving  back  the 
Persian ;  they  were  more  ready  to  do  without  freedom  than 
without  beauty. 

But  as  one  looks  at  these  shapes  tripping  through  the 
twilight,  there  seems  to  be  sometimes  a  little  hesitation,  a 
little  doubting  as  to  the  success  of  the  enterprise.  One  is 
emboldened  to  address  them  in  words  of  prophetic  con- 
fidence: Courage,  oh  ye  long-haired  Achaeans,  I  predict 
that  ye  will  not  only  restore  Helen,  but  that  ye  will  take 
Troy  itself  and  raze  it  to  the  ground.  Helen  will  be 
brought  back  to  Greece,  there  to  remain  yours  forever,  but 
only  after  ten  weary  years  of  struggle.  And  thou,  Ulysses, 
dearest  of  all  my  friends  here,  thou  too  wilt  return,  though 
thou  hast  before  thee  a  greater  task  than  even  the  restora- 
tion of  Helen.  Ten  years  first  must  thou  battle  before  Troy 
for  her  sake,  then  ten  years  more  hast  thou  to  wander 


204  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

through  things  visible  and  invisible  till  thou  reach  sunny 
Ithaca  and  chaste  Penelope. 

But  the  brusque  shade  turned  and  asked  me :  What,  oh 
child  of  the  setting  sun,  art  thou  doing  here,  among  us 
hoary  shapes  of  eld,  in  our  struggle  with  the  sons  of  the 
Dawn?  I  answered:  I  too  am  in  pursuit  of  Helen,  I  have 
come  to  Aulis,  I  also  wish  to  go  with  you  to  Troy. 

A  wild  goose  snattered  overhead,  the  ghosts  of  the  old 
chieftains  at  once  vanished,  slowly  I  returned  to  the  wine- 
shop, wondering  how  a  ridiculous  goose  could  put  to  flight 
all  the  heroes  of  Troy. 


TALK  EIGHTH. 


Aulis  and  Chalkis. 

"When  I  had  come  back  from  the  bay,  it  was  dark  and  the 
wineshop  had  closed,  accordingly  I  went  into  the  adjoining 
house  where  I  was  to  remain  for  the  night.  There  was  a 
bright  fire  blazing  in  the  hearth;  around  it  the  company 
were  squatted  on  rugs ;  the  flashes  from  the  flames  lit  up 
all  the  faces  which  were  gazing  intently  on  the  fire.  Out- 
side of  that  illuminated  circle  a  small  lamp  struggled  with 
the  darkness ;  the  naked  rafters  could  be  dimly  seen  over- 
head hung  with  various  articles  of  the  household.  "We  had 
one-half  of  the  house,  which  consisted  of  a  single  oblong 
room ;  the  other  half  was  taken  up  with  the  stable ;  the 
difference  between  our  part  and  the  donkey's  part  of  the 
house  was  not  marked  by  any  partition,  but  by  a  floor 
slightly  raised  from  the  ground.  Sometimes  in  Greek 
dwellings  you 'will  not  find  this  distinction  of  a  floor  re- 
tained ;  man  has  not  yet  weaned  himself  from  the  bosom  of 
his  primeval  mother.  In  the  stable  were  a  donkey  and  a 


206  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

lamb  ;  each  of  them  in  its  own  peculiar  note,  informed  us  at 
intervals  during  the  entire  night,  of  its  presence. 

Also  the  company  round  the  fire  is  worthy  of  notice. 
There  we  sit  looking  at  the  blaze  and  watching  the  supper 
which  is  cooking  before  us ;  hunger  is  throned  in  every  eye, 
and  observes  the  various  stages  of  the  culinary  process  with 
no  little  impatience.  I  am  squatted  in  front  of  the  hearth, 
deeply  absorbed  in  the  turkey  now  being  whirled  on  the  spit 
and  oozing  all  over  with  fragrant  juices ;  Varvouillya  is  next 
on  my  right,  he  is  telling  some  of  his  stories  of  travel  for  our 
amusement ;  next  to  him  comes  Yanni,  our  simple  Albanian 
host,  with  his  hands  locked  around  his  knees  and  rather 
stupidly  rocking  himself  backwards  and  forwards  on  his 
haunches.  Yanni' s  mind  is  evidently  divided  between  the 
stranger,  the  like  of  whom  he  has  never  seen  in  his  house 
before,  and  the  turkey,  with  the  preponderance  of  interest 
in  favor  of  the  latter. 

But  on  my  left  sit  two  new  characters,  women,  two  other 
guests  besides  Varvouillya  and  myself.  They  are  Walla- 
chian  shepherdesses  who  have  come  down  from  the  moun- 
tains with  their  products,  and  are  going  to  the  bazaar  at 
Chalkis  early  to-morrow  morning.  There  is  a  wild  look 
about  them,  they  are  genuine  nomads,  children  of  Nature, 
living  in  the  open  air  among  the  hills,  like  birds  amid 
branches.  Their  dress  is  rude,  of  very  simple  construction, 
from  below  a  short  kirtle  their  naked  feet  peep  out,  resting 
on  the  hearth-stones,  and  evidently  not  accustomed  to  tend- 
er usage ;  they  had  shoes,  but  these  had  been  taken  off  at 
the  door  according  to  custom.  The  youngest  of  the  two 
was  a  girl  of  about  eighteen,  who  sat  next  to  me ;  she  could 
not  well  be  called  beautiful,  but  I  admired  her  unstinted 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  207 

plrysical  growth,  the  fullness  and  natural  luxuriance  of  her 
body.  Dark  tresses  fell  down  her  cheeks  in  the  wild  negli- 
gence of  nature ;  from  beneath  them,  as  out  of  some  dim 
grot  gleamed  two  bright  warm  eyes.  I  began  to  talk  with 
her  as  she  spoke  Greek ;  I  told  her  that  I  wanted  to  see  and 
to  live  with  the  shepherds  in  their  tents  of  brushwood,  then 
I  asked  her  if  she  would  not  take  me  with  ker  to  the  Walla- 
chian  village  in  the  mountains.  With  a  shower  of  unusually 
vivid  sparkles  from  her  eyes  she  replied  that  she  would. 
But  the  next  day  she  said  that  she  had  to  go  to  Chalkis,  and 
could  not  well  look  after  me  there  ;  still  she  would  return  in 
the  afternoon  and  would  then  gladly  conduct  me  to  her 
home.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  backed  out,  though  I 
wanted  very  much  to  go  to  her  village,  and  I  debated  a  good 
while  with  myself  about  the  matter.  But  I  concluded  that 
I  had  better  stay  with  Varvouillya  who  was  going  forward 
to  Thebes  the  following  day.  I  now  regret  that  I  did  not 
accept  her  invitation,  for  I  had  never  afterwards  another  op- 
portunity of  the  kind,  though  I  sought  one  repeatedly ;  also 
I  might  have  remained  in  that  Wallachian  village  and  be- 
come a  shepherd. 

Her  associate,  a  woman  in  middle  life,  is  of  a  very  differ- 
ent type ;  she  has  a  strangely  fine  face  with  subtly  woven 
lines,  though  it  be  somewhat  wrinkled  and  haggard.  Slight 
curls  hang  down  over  her  features  which  seem  to  be  marked 
more  by  mental  than  by  physical  endurance.  I  can  not 
help  thinking  that  she  has  suffered,  the  spirit  within 
appears  to  be  in  dumb  protest  with  this  pastoral  life  of  hers. 
She  must  be  some  waif  of  civilization,  a  lost  child  of  Europe 
whom  destiny  has  cast  among  these  shepherds.  But  how 
has  she  come  hither?  There  is  ancestral  dignity  still  re- 


208  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

learning  in  those  fine  lines ;  some  fall  speaks  unconsciously 
from  her  sorrowful  look.  A  whole  romance  I  seem  to  read, 
plainly  writ  in  her  face,  but  when  I  question  her  about  her 
origin,  she  says  that  she  is  merely  a  shepherdess. 

Next  to  her  in  the  circle  is  Yanni's  wife  who  is  occupied 
in  turning  an  iron  spit  over  the  coals.  She  is  dressed  in  the 
white  Albanian  costume,  and  seems  very  shy  and  taciturn ; 
she  never  shares  in  the  laugh,  and  often  tries  to  hide  her 
chin  and  forehead  more  deeply  in  her  headkerchief .  Every 
few  moments  she  fetches  a  deep  sigh,  this  is  repeated  so 
often  that  I  inquire  the  cause.  I  was  told  that  there  had 
recently  occurred  a  death  in  the  family — this  was  the  form 
of  mourning.  In  all  parts  of  Greece  the  same  custom  can 
be  noticed ;  the  women,  not  the  men,  utter  the  lamentations 
which  are  kept  up  beside  the  hearth  long  afterwards,  as  if  to 
invoke  the  missing  member  to  take  his  place  at  the  domestic 
gathering.  It  is  essentially  the  ancient  custom;  at  the 
house  of  the  deceased  and  in  the  funeral  procession  were 
heard  the  wailings  of  females,  who  represent  more  intimate- 
ly and  intensely  than  the  man,  the  domestic  ties.  Thus, 
as  in  life  itself,  the  saddest  note  of  Nature  would  spontan- 
eously well  up  and  mingle  with  our  animated  words,  tingeing 
and  often  extinguishing  them ;  good  Varvouillya  tries  to 
give  consolation  to  the  poor  mother  sitting  at  the  hearth, 
while  we  look  on  in  sympathetic  silence,  but  the  consolation 
only  sharpens  the  pang  and  the  tears  begin  to  fall. 

That  spit  which  is  now  taken  in  hand  by  Yanni,  must  also 
have  its  jot  of  attention.  It  is  an  iron  rod  which  pierces  a 
turkey ;  this  is  turned  continually  before  the  fire  till  the 
fowl  is  thoroughly  roasted.  All  other  meats  are  cooked 
pretty  much  in  the  same  way,  they  are  cut  up  into  small 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  209 

pieces  which  are  pierced  by  the  spit  and  held  over  the  fire. 
Thus  the  Homeric  cookery,  as  seen  everywhere  in  Iliad  and 
Odyssey,  is  still  prevalent  in  Greece: 

his  companions  stood 

Around  him  and  prepared  the  feast,  and  some 
Roasted  the  flesh  at  fires,  and  some  transfixed 
The  parts  with  spits. 

So  the  merry  Greeks  feasted  anciently  at  Aulis ;  so  the  trav- 
eler is  going  to  feast  to-night,  for  the  turkey  is  done. 

The  simmering  -bird  is  removed  from  the  spit  by  the 
skillful  hands  of  Yanni  and  placed  upon  the  table  which  is 
lying  flat  on  the  floor  like  the  inn-keeper's  at  Marcopoulo. 
Around  it  the  three  men  squat  down  cross-legged,  with  eager 
glances  ;  the  three  women  keep  at  a  distance  and  pick  their 
bone  in  their  own  corner.  Women  here  have  not  yet  risen 
to  the  exalted  privilege  of  eating  their  dinner  with  their  ma- 
jestic lords.  There  was  beside  the  fowl,  good  black  bread, 
a  little  dry,  but  floated,  as  usual,  by  the  pearl-dropping 
recinato.  The  host  is,  as  already  said,  a  simple  Albanian, 
without  education  and  without  natural  gifts,  yet  he  has  some 
natural  capacity  for  turkey  and  wine.  He  is  kind  and  open- 
hearted,  but  he  seems  to  have  passed  his  whole  life  in  this 
Mttle  village,  without  any  knowledge  of  the  world  outside  of 
it.  A  vague  curiosity  he  shows  about  lands  and  seas  and 
peoples  of  which  the  traveler  talks,  but  his  intellect  is  hardly 
capable  of  more  than  a  stupid  wonder.  He  is  quite  a  con- 
trast to  that  quick-witted  and  well-educated  Greek,  the  jolly 
landlord  of  ^Marcopoulo,  whom  we  must  not  alwa}rs  expect 
to  meet  at  our  inn.  He  speaks  a  broken  Romaic,  I  speak 
a  broken  Greek,  between  us  the  pure  transparent  tongue  of 
Hellas  is  badly  shivered,  as  if  a  costly  minor  were  shattered 


210  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

to  fragments.     Still  in  each  fragment  you  can  see  yourself ; 
so  we  manage  to  understand  one  another  very  well. 

Doubtless  Yanni  may  be  taken  as  a  pretty  fair  sample  of 
the  common  Albanian  population  of  Greece.  It  is  still  a 
problem  what  these  people  are  going  to  make  of  themselves : 
will  they  finally  coalesce  with  the  other  elements  and  aid  in 
forming  one  homogeneous  Hellenic  nation,  or  will  they  con- 
tinue to  remain  a  distinct  race  upon  Greek  soil  ?  At  present 
the  Albanians  preserve  most  stubbornly  the  ancestral  lan- 
guage and  customs.  The  wife  before  me  cannot  speak  even 
common  Greek  or  Romaic,  though  she  understands  it  pretty 
well ;  to  preserve  their  language  the  men  often  do  not  per- 
mit the  women  to  learn  other  than  the  maternal  tongue. 
Their  agriculture,  their  methods  of  labor,  their  implements 
are  of  the  most  primitive  kind ;  they  allow  no  improvements 
on  the  traditional  manner  of  doing  things.  This  Albanian 
element  seems  a  most  stubborn,  stolid,  impervious  element 
in  the  way  of  the  progress  of  Greece;  its  conservatism 
would  be  excellent,  were  it  not  in  danger  of  becoming  abso- 
lutely crystallized ;  it  can  not  be  kneaded  or  moulded  to 
any  new  shape.  Still  the  Albanians  are  a  strong,  courag- 
eous, uncorrupted  race ;  without  their  bravery  and  perse- 
verance there  would  have  been  no  Greek  independence. 

Perhaps  in  the  course  of  time  they  may  add  their  somewhat 
heavy  ballast  to  the  somewhat  light-headed  and  unsteady 
Greek  character,  for  in  this  respect  the  two  peoples  are 
quite  opposite.  Thus  there  may  arise  another  great  Hel- 
lenic nation,  combining  the  versatility  of  the  one  with  the 
conservatism  of  the  other  element.  At  present,  however, 
the  streams  will  not  mingle.  This  lack  of  homogeneity  in 
the  population  of  modern  Greece  is  the  most  striking  fact  of 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  211 

its  social  condition,  and  excites  the  observer  to  various  reflec- 
tions. It  certainly  indicates  weakness,  national  weakness, 
for  the  spirit  of  nationality  is  not  strong  enough  to  overcome 
these  natural  distinctions  of  race,  and  to  fuse  them  into  unity. 
Every  strong  nation  must  digest  the  foreign  elements  with- 
in itself  and  absorb  them  into  its  own  character,  language 
and  institutions  by  the  intensity  of  its  national  life.  But 
these  three  races — Greek,  Albanian,  Wallachian — have  ex- 
isted here  for  centuries  alongside  of  one  another  without 
being  smelted  by  the  fire  of  patriotism  into  the  oneness  of 
spirit  which  may  be  called  nationality.  Greece  is  still  an 
agglomerate,  not  an  organic  Whole ;  the  want  of  the  central 
fire  which  burns  up  all  narrow  limitations  is  still  felt ;  the  an- 
cient tendency  to  separation,  which  is  so  strongly  marked  in 
the  physical  features  of  the  country,  is  now  manifested  in 
this  resistance  to  a  fusion  of  races,  though  in  antiquity  the 
resistance  was  to  a  political  unity  of  peoples  of  the  same 
race.  Such  a  condition  comes  of  weakness  and  can  only 
perpetuate  weakness. 

Already  I  had  been  ruminating  on  the  problem  of  accom- 
modating this  respectable  body  of  people  in  one  room  for  the 
night.  Yanni  began  solving  the  difficulty  by  spreading  out 
a  blanket  on  the  floor  for  me  and  then  giving  me  another 
blanket  for  cover.  Thus  I  was  disposed  of ;  the  shepherd- 
esses lay  down  on  a  rug  in  front  of  the  fire,  pretty  much  as 
they  were ;  it  was  probably  the  best  lodging  they  had  had  in 
a  long  time.  Tresses  became  more  dishevelled  as  their 
heads  drooped  in  slumber ;  then  too  they  must  have  for- 
gotten that  they  were  under  roof,  for  they  snored  away  as  if 
they  were  on  their  native  mountains  with  only  the  skies 
overhead.  The  family  also  retire  alongside  of  the  hearth ; 


212  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

thus  we  all  lie  there,  scattered  around  the  blaze  of  the  oak 
branches,  head  to  feet  and  feet  to  head,  in  the  sweet  inno- 
cence of  Paradise. 

But  notice  Yanni,  thou  unsatisfied  wanderer  up  and  down 
the  earth !  At  the  other  end  of  the  house  where  the  stable 
is,  hangs  a  small  lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling ;  with  a 
faint  light  it  burns  before  a  rude  picture  of  the  Virgin ;  on 
retiring  Yanni  turns  to  that  light,  crosses  himself  many 
times,  makes  profound  bows  to  the  image  and  repeats  his 
prayers.  Not  before  that  act  is  done,  is  he  willing  to  con- 
sign himself  to  the  strange  unconscious  world  which  lies  be- 
tween to-day  and  to-morrow.  This  question  of  Deity  then 
has  entered  the  heart  of  the  unlettered  man ;  there  is  a 
power  above  him  which  he  recognizes,  and  with  which  he 
must  put  himself  in  harmony,  before  he  can  find  repose  for 
the  night.  The  traveler  observes  the  fact  not  without  reflec 
tion,  not  without  emotion.  Mark  it  well :  his  own  sweet 
will  is  not  for  Yanni  the  supreme  thing ;  he  must  at  least 
placate  that  image  yonder,  and  the  power  which  looks 
through  it  into  his  soul.  Recognition  of  some  higher  being 
who  governs  the  universe  gleams  through  the  darkness  into 
this  hut;  it  is  a  gleam,  only  a  gleam  like  that  flickering 
lamp  illuminating  dimly  the  face  of  the  Virgin.  But  by  it 
you  can  behold  some  image  of  the  Divine,  rude  though  it  be ; 
whenever  you  wake  in  the  night,  you  will  see  the  lamp  still 
burning  faintly  high  up  amid  the  rafters,  hopefully  trying  to 
show  to  you  also  some  countenance  of  love  and  protection. 

Previously  at  supper,  I  had  noticed  a  peculiar  religious 
trait  of  Yanui's,  or  perhaps  only  a  freak;  whenever  he 
emptied  a  glass  of  recinato,  he  invariably  used  this  expres- 
sion in  doubtful  Greek:  apo  ton  theon — to  God;  he  drank 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  213 

his  toast  to  God.  If  I  proposed  the  health  of  his  family,  of 
his  wife,  of  his  country,  of  himself,  he  would  never  fail  to 
drink,  but  his  only  response  was :  apo  ton  theon — to  God. 
Did  he  imagine  that  divinity  too  was  pleased  with  the  golden 
recinato,  like  ancient  Bacchus  ?  Certainly  he  did  not  think 
that  the  joyous  beverage  could  be  of  Satan,  wherein  I  relig- 
iously believe  with  him.  But  the  traveler  as  he  looks  up  will 
behold  a  true  illumination  in  that  small  burning  lamp,  and 
will  feel  a  protecting  hand  reach  out  from  the  dim  picture ; 
for  by  the  light  there  the  Virgin  can  see,  according  to  Yanni's 
faith,  and  avert  any  act  of  villany,  and  even  punish  the  evil- 
doer. Such  will  be  the  general  feeling  of  the  lone  stranger, 
as  he  drops  off  into  slumber,  in  spite  of  the  ugly  drawback 
that  the  brigands  went  to  church  at  Oropus  and  devoutly 
prayed  to  the  Virgin. 

Unimportant  details  I  promised  to  tell  you ;  therefore  I 
may  say  that  my  dreams  were  pleasant,  though  my  couch  was 
hard,  harder  than  any  I  recollect  of  having  since  the  days  of 
my  campaigning.  But  when  I  became  sore  on  one  side, 
nothing  prevented  me  from  turning  over  and  lying  on  my 
other  side,  except  the  danger  of  stirring  up  the  people  at  my 
feet.  Various  sounds  floated  through  my  slumbers  that 
night,  some  of  which  I  brought  back  with  me  from  Lethe : 
the  donkey  in  the  stable  kept  champing  his  straw,  the  lamb 
bleated,  the  dogs  barked,  the  baby  cried ;  Varvouillya, 
asleep  within  reaching  distance  of  me,  grunted  at  his  beast 
of  destiny,  and  then  punched  me  in  the  ribs.  All  this  I 
could  endure'  and  slumber  on-  in  happy  Greek  mood ;  but 
when  the  young  shepherdess,  in  some  dream  of  pastoral 
felicity  turned  over  and  rolled  her  stalwart  body  upon  my 
feet,  sleep  fled  from  my  eyelids.  Meantime  the  elder  shep- 


214  A   Walk  in  Hellas. 

herdess  rose  and  woke  her  companion ;  they  talked  and 
chaffered  with  Yanui  about  the  bill  for  their  lodging ;  then 
tying  their  heavy  bundles  on  their  back,  they  set  out  for 
Chalkis  afoot,  before  the  rosy-fingered  Aurora  had  strewn  a 
single  coral  in  the  Orient.  What  man  in  these  degenerate 
days  could  lift  the  burden  with  which  I  saw  my  young  shep- 
herdess gaily  trip  along,  when  she  opened  the  door  to  the 
fitful  glimmer  of  the  moon!  Good-bye,  mountainous 
nymph,  an  aching  ankle  keeps  thy  mighty  image  vividly 
before  me,  yet  darting  amid  delightful  visions  of  what  a  life 
would  be  in  thy  pastoral  home. 

In  the  morning  there  is  a  large  company  passing  from  the 
village  to  Chalkis  in  a  boat ;  I  go  with  them.  The  little 
vessel  went  across  the  ancient  bay  of  Aulis,  right  through  the 
anchoring  places  of  the  Greek  fleet,  which  must  have  rocked 
buoyantly  on  these  wavelets.  Opening  into  the  large  bay  is 
the  small  bay  of  Aulis ;  both  of  them  were  required,  doubt- 
less, for  the  old  fleet ;  one  imagines  those  thousand  ships 
still  lying  on  the  sea  with  their  drooping  white  sails  in  the 
sun.  But  it  is  the  island  in  the  middle  of  the  bay  which 
fixes  most  strongly  the  attention ;  round  and  full  it  rises  out 
of  the  water  slightly  flattened  on  the  top,  and  seems  to  dance 
in  the  ripples  like  a  ball.  As  it  is  the  center  of  the  harbor, 
so  around  it  play  all  the  memories  of  the  ancient  story — of 
the  ships,  of  the  heroes,  of  the  virgin's  sacrifice.  Along  the 
shore  are  beautiful  hilltops  rising  up  into  sunshine ;  on  them 
we  place  some  shrine  or  temple,  white  with  columns  and 
frieze,  gleaming  afar  over  the  waters.  Upon  one  of  these 
summits  is  situated  the  ancient  citadel  of  Aulis,  whose  re- 
mains can  still  be  seen ;  huge  walls  with  gates  are  there, 
speaking  of  the  olden  time. 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  215 

The  little  boat  is  full  of  people :  there  are  several  other 
boats  going  in  the  same  direction;  each  has  its  oarsman 
with  its  crew  on  the  benches ;  thus  a  new  Agamemnonian 
fleet  cuts  through  the  waters  of  Aulis.  Many  flashes  of  old 
Greek  customs  the  traveler  will  imagine  that  he  sees  in  the 
company.  There  is  the  Greek  merriment  aboard,  which  at 
times  seems  to  verge  toward  childishness,  as  shown  in  little 
tricks  and  jests ;  two  men  of  middle  age  roll  over  the 
benches  and  tickle  each  other  to  the  amusement  of  the  whole 
fleet.  Many  hints  of  old  Greek  dress  will  be  noticed  in 
these  garments ;  they  are  mostly  white  fustanellas,  not  spot- 
less now,  but  suggesting  that  they  may  have  been  anciently 
so.  There  is  a  leathern  pouch  around  the  waist  containing 
a  long  knife  and  other  needful  untensils ;  from  it  the  wearer 
draws  forth  flint  and  punk  to  strike  a  light  for  any  purpose 
which  he  may  have  in  mind ;  since  it  would  be  a  gross 
anachronism  to  illumine  the  bay  of  Aulis  with  a  modern 
match.  A  whole  Greek  household  lies  in  that  pouch ;  out 
of  its  unseen  depths  the  man  at  my  side  takes  a  heavy 
needle  and  thread,  and  sews  up  a  rip  in  my  shoe,  for  his 
own  mere  delectation.  Then  there  is  the  language ;  still  the 
Greek  is  spoken  here,  and  it  is  probable  that  the  ancient  and 
the  modern  sailor,  could  they  now  address  each  other  in 
these  waters,  would  be  mutually  intelligible.  Still  the  most 
marvelous  fact  of  human  speech :  the  Homeric  heroes  spake 
as  is  spoken  to-day  in  the  port  of  Aulis. 

During  this  little  voyage  my  chief  associate  I  find  in  the 
schoolmaster  of  Vathy  (or  Aulis),  who  is  crossing  over  to 
Chalkis  for  some  school  books,  as  he  says.  He  was  a  cap- 
tain in  the  Cretan  insurrection,  was  compelled  to  flee  from 
his  native  island  and  leave  his  family  to  the  tender  mercies 


216  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

of  the  Turk ;  now  he  has  to  be  a  schoolmaster  in  a  foreign 
land.  It  is  not  long  before  he  begins  to  complain ;  man- 
ifestly he  has  lost  his  Greek  mood  teaching  school  at  Aulis. 
Indeed  fortune  has  buffeted  him  till  he  has  become  like  a 
wind-beaten  oak,  all  gnarled  and  cross-grained ;  but  to-day 
the  rest  of  the  merry  company  prevent  him  from  letting  out 
fully  his  splenetic  humor.  He  invited  me  to  visit  his  school, 
which  I  promised  to  do  when  we  returned  from  Chalkis 
where  we  have  now  arrived. 

The  town  of  Chalkis  presented  on  that  morning,  which  was 
market-day,  a  very  mixed  appearance.  The  Orient  seems 
to  be  more  strongly  impressed  upon  this  place  than  upon 
any  other  in  Greece  ;  yet  it  has  also  many  a  fierce  reminder 
of  the  Occident ;  clearly  it  has  been  a  point  of  conflict  and 
of  fluctuating  possession  in  the  old  centuries.  Its  impor- 
tance— for  it  commands  the  Euripus  at  the  narrowest  cross- 
ing— has  always  made  it  an  object  with  conquerors.  The 
traces  of  its  various  rulers  and  its  checkered  destiny  are 
stamped  everywhere  upon  its  face,  and  at  once  possess  the 
attention  and  the  feelings  of  the  beholder.  Here  is  a  Gothic 
church  with  its  pointed  windows,  dating  from  the  Venetian 
occupation  during  the  Middle  Ages.  It  seems  like  a  lost 
ghost,  you  salute  it  and  ask  it :  How  hast  thou  wandered 
hither  from  thy  home  in  the  dark  foggy  North?  The  lion  of 
St.  Mark  is  still  seen  over  the  gate  of  the  castle ;  he  yet  has 
the  hoary  look  of  a  crusader.  Signs  of  Turkish  occupation 
are  noticed  in  the  old  mosques  and  towers,  in  the  falling 
fortifications,  in  the  careless  construction  of  the  walls. 
Wretched  patchwork  over  great  remains  shows  the  Turk  in 
Greece.  A  few  Mohammedans  are  said  to  linger  still  in 
Chalkis,  the  only  place  of  the  Prophet's  worship  in  the  king- 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  217 

dom  is  left  here.  A  few  marbles  built  into  the  walls  of  the 
churches  give  a  slight  sprinkle  of  antiquity ;  but  of  the  dis- 
tinctive new  Hellas  the  traveler  seeks  the  signs  in  vain.  But 
it  will  come,  be  not  impatient. 

The  bazaar  or  market  is  on  Mondays ;  good  fortune  has 
landed  me  just  at  the  right  moment.  The  streets  and  par- 
ticularly the  public  square  are  lined  with  small  booths, 
everything  which  the  Orient  offers  is  for  sale,  mingled  in 
admirable  disorder  with  Western  merchandise.  Peddlers  are 
here  from  all  parts  of  Greece,  hawking  their  wares ;  I  see 
my  man  who  fell  into  turbid  Asopus,  trying  to  sell  a  kind  of 
carding  comb ;  still  the  marks  of  the  muddy  waters  fleck  the 
white  folds  of  his  fustanella,  as  he  dashes,  all  oblivious, 
through  the  surging  crowd.  Some  American  cottons  and 
American  cutlery  can  be  noticed,  but  the  English  manufac- 
turer possesses  the  market ;  for  his  success  he  has  my  best 
wishes  at  least,  since  he  does  not  clamor  for  protection  at 
home,  wliile  carrying  his  wares  around  the  world.  The  most 
obstinate  chafferers  are  the  women  who  are  selling,  for  no 
women  appear  as  buyers ;  I  am  told  that  Greek  women  of 
respectability  never  go  to  market.  "What  a  bustling,  bar- 
gaining, yet  merry-making  crowd!  Dried  figs  I  bought, 
good,  yet  enormously  cheap ;  for  five  cents  a  peasant  woman 
loaded  me  down,  so  that  I  had  to  leave  part  of  my  measure 
behind  for  want  of  transportation.  I  should  have  bought 
only  a  cent's  worth  according  to  the  rules  of  careful  econ- 
omy. My  Wallachian  shepherdess,  too,  I  saw  there,  sitting 
among  her  curds  and  lambs,  with  wild  luxuriant  form  now 
more  fully  revealed  in  the  clear  daylight ;  she  greets  me  with 
another  shower  of  sparkles  and  invites  me  anew  to  her 
mountain  home.  As  I  walked  through  one  of  the  back 


218  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

streets,  some  Greek  boys  observing  my  foreign  dress  began 
to  run  after  and  mock  the  stranger ;  they  were  joined  by 
others  wherever  we  passed.  I  darted  rapidly  through  an 
alley,  but  the  crowd  increased  till  a  small  mob  was  in  per- 
suit.  I  hurried  back  to  the  bazaar  and  lost  myself  from  my 
tormentors  in  the  throng.  The  boys  did  not  mean  anything 
except  a  little  sport ;  but  it  was  one  of  two  acts  of  rudeness 
which  I  remember  to  have  experienced  in  my  journey 
through  rural  Greece.  Postal  matters  seemed  rather  lax  at 
Chalkis ;  two  visits  to  the  Post  Office  were  not  able  to  pro- 
cure me  an  interview  with  the  Postmaster  or  the  sight  of  a 
postage  stamp. 

The  Greek  shops  open  with  their  whole  fronts  into  the 
street,  they  always  seem  to  be  half  outside  in  the  free  air. 
The  shoemaker  sits  before  his  door  and  pegs  away,  the  black- 
smith's shop  is  next  to  the  shoemaker's,  his  bellows  can  be 
blown  by  a  person  standing  on  the  pavement.  The  artisans 
generally  are  working  in  the  open  air,  or  just  across  the 
threshold  of  the  entrance.  Public  eating  places  are  frequent ; 
the  kitchen  is  where  the  front  window  is  in  our  houses ;  as 
you  pass  along  the  street,  you  can  see  the  pot  boiling  and 
smell  the  oleaginous  fragrance  of  its  contents.  If  you  wish, 
the  keeper  will  hand  you  a  spoon  and  a  plate  of  lentils  or 
beans  with  stewed  mutton,  and  you  can  eat  your  dinner 
under  the  free  blue  sky  of  Hellas. 

Thus  the  shops  range  close  together  down  the  street,  like 
a  series  of  pigeon  holes,  before  which  the  active  chattering 
folk  is  swarming.  It  is  the  gift  of  the  climate :  man  can  not 
endure  to  be  housed  up,  though  it  be  mid  winter.  The  air 
invites,  confinement  within  walls  is  painful,  the  glorious 
world  is  outside  and  the  golden  gifts  of  Helius.  Yet  just  as 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  219 

the  shops  are  open,  free,  unconfined,  so  the  dwelling  houses 
are  close,  walled-in,  forbidding.  There  the  women  are,  the 
family ;  the  world  must  not  be  allowed  to  enter  that  sanc- 
tuary, nor  must  it  come  out  into  the  world.  I  walked  to- 
ward the  suburbs  through  the  more  private  streets,  in  the 
hope  of  catching  a  glimpe  of  some  beautiful  Greek  shape. 
But  there  was  not  one  to  be  seen,  not  a  woman  of  the  better 
class  appeared  any  where.  Away  then ; — no  chance  is  there 
of  finding  Helen  here  in  this  Oriental  seclusion ;  though  Aulis 
lie  just  yonder  across  the  strait,  resting  in  tranquil  sunshine, 
yet  eternally  inviting  to  a  new  expedition  to  Troy,  there  is 
now  not  a  sign  of  a  Homeric  hero,  not  a  sign  of  even  a 
wretched  Thersites  who  has  come  hither  in  pursuit  of  their 
beautiful  queen.  The  day  of  the  Trojan  enterprise  is  indeed 
past  forever ;  Helen  must  be  recovered  in  some  other  way. 
In  my  disappointment  I  went  down  to  the  bridge  over  the 
Euripus  and  looked  at  the  flow  of  its  waters.  The  first 
bridge  is  said  to  have  been  built  by  the  Thebans  during  the 
Peloponnesian  war ;  the  building  of  it  was  one  of  the  severest 
blows  that  Athens  received,  and  according  to  Thucydides 
caused  more  terror  than  the  defeat  of  the  Sicilian  expedition 
— doubtless  one  of  the  two  exaggerations  to  be  found  in  that 
coldest-blooded  of  historians.  But  look  under  the  bridge  at 
this  strong  current ;  it  seems  like  a  narrow  stream  dashing 
down  a  rocky  bottom.  Look  at  it  longer ;  it  is  not  as  swift 
as  it  was,  indeed  it  changes  under  your  eye  from  a  rapid 
torrent  to  a  mild  unruffled  movement  of  slow  waters.  If  you 
look  at  it  the  third  time  long  enough,  you  will  find  that  the 
current  has  wholly  ceased,  there  is  a  complete  calm  under  the 
bridge ;  nay,  it  begins  slowly  to  move  the  other  way,  and 
soon  increases  to  the  swift  dashing  stream  which  you  saw 


220  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

first,  but  in  the  opposite  direction.  This  change  takes  p 
within  a  few  minutes,  and  sometimes  there  are  several  su 
changes  in  twenty-four  hours.  On  the  whole  this  is  the 
most  capricious  thing  known  of  the  sea.  The  cause  is  com- 
monly said  to  be  some  mixed  action  of  tides  and  winds  along 
with  the  configuration  of  the  land  above  and  below.  But  I 
hold  it  to  be  an  inherent  principle  of  Greek  water  that  it  be 
able  to  run  in  one  direction,  then  to  turn  around  and  run 
back  again ;  true  to  the  Greek  character  it  sometimes  has  the 
capacity  of  being  the  opposite  of  itself.  Enemies  call  this 
trait  by  the  ugly  name  of  lying  or  treachery ;  but  let  us  call 
it  versatility,  the  ability  to  turn  about. 

From  this  narrowest  point  of  the  Euripus  we  see  plainly 
what  the  island  Euboea  is :  simply  a  fragment  torn  off  from 
the  mainland  and  thrown  into  the  sea.  The  mighty  giant 
who  performed  the  feat  was  a  veritable  existence  to  the 
ancient  eye  looking  at  yonder  ragged  mountain  and  behold- 
ing this  rift  filled  with  water ;  nor  will  the  modern  observer 
fail  to  have  some  faith  in  that  deed  of  wonder.  The  old 
myths  are  often  the  truest  expression  of  the  Greek  landscape 
to  this  day ;  far  truer  to  me  than  the  imageless  impersonal 
geological  description.  That  angry  Titan  who  tore  up  a 
mountain  and  hurled  it  at  Jupiter,  with  the  forests  still  on  it 
and  with  the  streams  still  running  down  its  sides,  can  yet  be 
seen  with  a  good  vision.  Euboea  is  an  island,  but  it  be- 
comes mainland  by  a  bridge.  Such  is  the  physical  aspect  of 
Greece :  land  and  water  lie  in  brotherly  embrace,  ready  to 
furnish  mutual  assistance ;  but  they  can  be  made  to  hold  aloof 
from  each  other  with  sullen  defiance.  The  continent,  too, 
is  filled  with  islands,  quite  like  the  sea,  for  what  else  are 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  221 

these  plains  and  valleys  held  asunder  by  the  mountains,  re- 
quiring that  climbing  ship,  the  donkey  to  pass  them  ? 

In  the  afternoon  the  same  vessel  with  the  same  company 
returns  to  Vathy.  As  I  sat  on  the  shore  previous  to  depart- 
ing, I  was  surprised  to  hear  myself  addressed  in  good 
fluent  English  by  a  man  in  the  baggy  blue  breeches  of  the 
islanders.  I  greeted  gladly  my  native  speech  in  that  strange 
spot,  where  I  least  thought  of  hearing  it ;  the  unexpected 
meeting  of  lovers  after  long  separation,  could  not  have 
been  more  tender ;  under  such  circumstances  one  is  aston- 
ished to  find  what  deep  affection  he  has  for  his  mother 
tongue.  The  man  had  been  many  years  a  sailor  in  the 
English  merchant  marine  where  he  had  learned  the  language. 
But  shove  off,  let  us  leave  living  Chalkis  and  once  more 
rock  over  the  ripples  of  the  Euripus  to  the  more  real  forms 
of  those  ancient  ghosts  at  Aulis. 

For  after  all,  the  supreme  interest  here  is  the  deserted  har- 
bor, the  invisible  ships,  the  vanished  temples.  Yet  Nature 
also  is  in  harmony  with  the  spell,  if  she  does  not  produce  it ; 
the  blue  waters  beneath  us  gush  around  the  keel  in  quiet 
joy ;  the  gentle  curvature  of  the  hills  throws  its  soft  line 
against  the  sky ;  these  hills  too  are  waves  in  that  fixed  rocky 
sea  above,  now  also  faintly  blue  with  haze ;  over  their 
tops  Apollo  with  the  coyness  of  a  new  love  tenderly  feels 
with  his  golden  fingers.  It  is  classic  repose  in  classic  out- 
line ;  the  soul  into  which  these  summits  have  been  born  can 
never  tolerate  extravagance,  violence,  horror.  In  that,  line 
of  tranquil"  undulation,  there  is  movement,  much  movement, 
but  no  throes,  no  wihd  fury.  There  is  struggle, — for  note 
how  yonder  mountain  strives  to  reach  above  its  neighbors ; 
still  there  is  the  final  reconcilation,  the  final  solution  of  the 


222  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

conflict  in  a  grand  harmony.  Passion  too  is  here,  the  heights 
roll  and  heave  over  some  mighty  throbbing  heart,  but  there 
is  no  giving  way,  no  despair ;  each  throb  reveals  the  motion 
of  a  Grace  and  its  very  calmness  signifies  its  energy.  Blood- 
red  intensity  you  will  say,  yet  somehow  united  with  a  sunny 
tranquillity,  making  a  new  sweet  but  deep-moving  music 
over  these  heights. 

You,  the  spectator,  are  drawn  into  the  soul  of  this  land- 
scape, though  the  crowd  in  the  boat  laugh  at  your  absence 
of  mind ;  emotions  awake  deeply  within  you,  though  they 
can  not  boil  over  into  frenzy,  passions  even  rise  but  are 
gifted  with  a  strange  self-control.  You  are  rent  with  some 
unseen  conflict,  some  unconscious  struggle,  as  if  the  old 
powers  still  lurked  in  the  place  and  wrought  upon  you  with 
demonic  sympathy.  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  What 
influence  is  this  which  hurls  you  into  the  hopes,  the  fears — 
into  all  the  tossings  of  a  conflict  which  does  not  exist  for  the 
sober  senses — is  it  memory,  is  it  imagination  merely,  or  the 
nature  around  you  ?  You  weep  or  are  ready  to  weep  amid 
the  wild  gayety  of  the  company  in  your  boat ;  you  struggle 
within  yourself,  you  resolve,  you  make  the  sacrifice,  you 
repent.  Finally  you  ask  yourself;  whom  shall  I  place  in 
this  landscape  to  give  it  expression?  Whom  shall  I  place 
here  to  give  myself  expression?  For  the  typical  person 
must  be  found  around  whom  these  dim  emotions  cluster, 
and  in  whom  they  have  utterance ;  thus  they  are  thrown  out 
of  you  and  give  you  relief  from  their  throng.  Already,  I 
imagine,  you  have  had  glimpses  of  a  form  flitting  through 
your  soul  amid  the  clouds  of  feeling  r  that  form  begins  to 
walk  out  of  darkness  into  the  gleaming  radiance  of  sunshine ; 
it  is  a  young  virgin  dressed  in  spotless  white,  there  she 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  223 

stands  before  you  in  clearest  plastic  outline.  Who  is  she? 
"Who  also  is  that  man  standing  behind  her,  in  brazen  helm 
and  mailed  coat  with  a  spear  in  his  hand ;  he  seems  a  Jove- 
born  king,  of  great  authority  in  his  look  and  pride  in  his 
mien ;  yet  there  is  deep  tenderness,  nay,  sadness  in  his 
eye?  It  is  Iphigenia  with  her  father  Agamemnon;  they 
have  just  landed  on  yonder  round  island  in  the  bay,  upon 
whose  summit  the  temple  stands ;  he  drops  behind  her 
sacretly  to  throw  away  a  tear. 

Bump — we  too  are  landed ;  the  boat  strikes  the  shore 
heavily,  having  crossed  again  the  harbor  of  Aulis.  I  am 
thrown  forward  by  the  jolt  into  the  lap  of  the  Cretan  school- 
master, the  crabbed  Didaskali,  who  asks  me  to  accompany 
him  directly  to  his  school.  We  soon  enter  the  building, 
which  is  substantial,  but  has  no  floor;  twenty-five  little 
urchins  walk  about  in  the  dust  which  has  this  advantage, 
which  the  expert  will  not  fail  to  appreciate :  it  makes  their 
steps  wholly  noiseless.  Every  one  of  them  is  stockingless 
still  in  Februaiy ;  they  wear  low  sharp-pointed  pumps  and 
high  trowsers,  the  naked  flesh  intervening  you  may  imagine., 
if  you  wish.  As  soon  as  the  Didaskali  enters,  his  impa- 
tience begins  to  manifest  itself ;  he  finds  fault  with  all  that 
he  sees  and  with  whatever  has  been  done  during  his  absence ; 
nearly  every  boy  into  whose  copy-book  he  looks,  receives  a 
thump.  The  son  of  the  Didaskali,  a  youth  of  about  fifteen, 
helps  him  teach,  and  presides  during  his  absence ;  that  son 
had  his  cap  knocked  off  his  head  across  the  room  by  his 
irate  father.'  The  term  zoon,  animal,  was  the  favorite  word 
of  the  Didaskali,  though  he  employed  other  heavy  artillery 
of  that  sort  which  I  did  not  fully  understand,  except  its 
thmnder.  Taking  me  along,  with  switch  in  hand,  he  goes 


224  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

around  the  room  and  inspects  the  hands  of  the  little  fellows ; 
he  strikes  their  fingers  light  or  hard  with  his  switch  in  pro- 
portion to  the  dirt  on  them.  Cleanliness  received  that  day 
an  immense  advancement  in  Aulis.  But  judging  by  the 
condition  of  those  fingers  generally,  I  could  not  believe  that 
such  a  tour  had  been  the  teacher's  habit  every  day ;  the  re- 
flection would  force  itself  upon  the  pedagogic  mind  that  he 
did  all  this  for  the  special  honor  of  visitors — as  some  of  his 
fellow-craftsmen  do  in  other  lands  upon  occasion. 

Yet  the  boys  are  learning,  the  school  is  by  no  means  bad. 
They  write  well,  spell  readily  from  dictation,  and  are  drilled 
thoroughly  in  the  rudiments  of  arithmetic  and  geography. 
Certainly  the  country  schools  which  I  attended  in  youth  were 
not  better,  some  in  our  land  are  far  worse  to-day.  The 
seats  and  desks  are  of  the  improved  kind,  there  is  a  black- 
board and  it  is  used.  The  main  object  of  primary  educa- 
tion is  manifestly  attained  here;  the  common  branches, 
those  great  instrumentalities  of  all  culture,  are  placed  in  the 
possession  of  every  pupil.  If  any  of  these  boys  has  the 
divine  spark  within  him,  he  has  now  the  means  in  his  hand 
to  kindle  it  into  a  flame.  Also  there  was  order,  though  it 
was  too  much  the  discipline  of  terror.  Very  interesting  it 
was  to  hear  the  old  verbs  conjugated  with  the  instinct  of  a 
spoken  tongue — verbs  which  were  droned  over  by  young 
Thucydides  and  Xenophon.  Nothing  can  please  the  lover 
of  Greek  literature  and  of  that  ancient  Greek  world  more 
than  to  see  these  old  forms  and  expressions  welling  up  again 
into  the  spontaneity  of  living  speech.  Therefore  the  Greek 
school  is  the  most  interesting  of  all  schools  and  one  of  the 
most  interesting  things  in  Greece.  Do  not  pass  it  by  in 
your  trip. 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  225 

But  the  Didaskali  is  a  grumbler ;  knocked  over  and  be- 
labored by  ill-fortune,  he  has  become  all  bruised  and  crump- 
led up  in  spirit;  I  cannot  think  of  straightening  him  out 
now ;  it  seriously  clouds  my  Greek  mood  even  to  be  with 
him.  First,  he  has  the  eternal  grievance  of  all  teachers  that 
I  ever  saw,  male  or  female:  he  receives  too  little  salary. 
This  is  60  drachmas  a  month,  he  informs  me ;  in  our  money 
less  than  12  dollars.  Yet  I  have  to  tell  him  that  poverty- 
stricken  Greece  pays  relatively  better  salaries  than  rich 
America  to  her  instructors,  which  is  verily  not  much  conso- 
lation. Then  too  the  lack  of  promotion  is  another  complaint, 
for  he  feels  himself  capable  of  teaching  in  the  Hellenic 
School,  the  next  higher  grade ;  in  fact  he  knows  himself  to 
be  far  more  deserving  than  a  certain  Demosthenes  who  has 
been  put  up  by  favoritism. 

Here  then  is  another  case  of  unappreciated  genius  which 
we  never  fail  to  meet,  withersoever  we  may  turn  upon  our 
broad  earth ;  to  greatness  that  is  unknown  the  world  is  in- 
deed cold  and  indifferent.  A  sort  of  disease  one  may  call  it, 
of  which  hardly  any  human  being,  however  humble,  is  free  ; 
at  some  moment,  whatever  his  stoicism,  he  will  be  heard  to 
cry  out  in  pain :  Alas,  I  am  an  unrecognized  mortal  in  this 
life !  The  malady  has  seized  our  schoolmaster  in  its  most 
violent  and  eruptive  form,  breaking  out  continually  into 
speech,  whose  burden  is,  My  genius  is  not  appreciated  at 
Aulis.  So  he  heralds  the  fact  to  me,  and  I  herald  it  to  you 
who  listen  and  are  touched  upon  a  chord  more  or  less  re- 
sponsive. Sirch  is,  at  bottom,  the  trouble  with  the  Didas- 
kali's  discordant  temper ;  for  what  harmony  can  come  from  a 
soul  that  so  profoundly  believes  in  its  own  genius,  yet  has  to 
live  in  a  world  that  so  profoundly  disbelieves  in  the  same, 


226  A  Walk  in  Hellas.  y 

or  is  totally  ignorant  of  it?  Shrillest  discord  must  result 
when  such  a  soul  and  such  a  world  come  in  contact  with 
each  other,  as  they  have  to  do ;  yet  it  is  a  very  human  note, 
universally  heard  among  men.  The  traveler  may  laugh  a 
little  at  the  Didaskali,  but  has  to  reply  sympathetically: 
Yours  is  just  my  case,  too,  in  nay  country ;  I  also  am  not 
appreciated  there ;  but  our  talents  are  invincible,  our  merits 
are  bound  to  shine  through  all  clouds  of  envy  and  favoritism 
into  full  recognition,  if  we  can  only  in  the  mean  time  keep 
in  a  good  humor. 

His  abode  was  in  a  room  to  the  rear  of  the  school-house, 
where  he  boarded  himself  with  his  boy.  He  complained  of 
his  wretched  quarters,  and  his  room  did  look  as  if  no  woman's 
hand  had  been  there  for  many  a  day.  Unwashed  plates  and 
spoons,  table  and  bed  were  promiscuously  scattered  about 
the  room,  which  state  of  things  seems  to  be  his  own  fault. 
A  pot  of  beans  was  boiling  over  the  fire  for  his  meal ;  this 
with  the  recinato  is  enough  for  human  want.  Miserable  ex- 
istence, he  cried.  I  answered :  no,  my  friend,  I  deem  your 
lot  an  enviable  one,  I  would  like  to  change  with  you.  To  be 
schoolmaster  in  Aulis  is  to  be  prince  of  schoolmasters; 
heroes  are  your  next  neighbors,  poets  are  your  dearest 
friends ;  monarchs  are  your  associates,  if  there  ever  were 
monarchs  on  this  earth.  Homer,  Pindar,  Aeschylus  are  here 
with  an  infinite  train  of  successors  who  have  made  this  spot 
the  setting  for  their  rarest  jewels.  And  those  old  heroes  who 
still  haunt  this  place — whose  tramp  can  still  be  heard  on  the 
night- air  and  whose  oars  still  rustle  over  yon  bay  in  the 
evening  wind — are  they  no  company  for  you?  Give  me 
your  school,  this  room  where  we  now  are,  your  pot  of  beans 
and  demijohn  of  recinato,  with  those  rare  old  books  of  Troy 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  227 

— and  I  should  be  willing  to  stay  here  forever.  I  should 
like,  however,  before  I  begin,  to  have  these  dishes  washed 
and  the  bed  cleaned  up — I  did  not  speak  aloud  this  last  sen- 
tence, but  I  could  not  help  thinking  it. 

I  now  escape  from  my  colleague  who  has  told  me  so  mnch 
more  than  I  wanted  to  hear  of,  supposing  by  my  look  that  I 
knew  all  about  his  sort  of  grievances,  and  I  make  my  way 
across  the  fields  to  the  hills  overlooking  the  bay.  That  will 
be  a  relief  indeed,  for  there  far  other  company  awaits  the 
sojourner  at  Aulis.  The  common  people  when  I  meet  them 
on  the  road,  stop  and  curiously  Jin  quire :  Where  are  you 
going?  What  business  have  you  here?  Not  in  an  unfriend- 
ly spirit,  but  in  simple  rustic  curiosity  they  catch  me  by  the 
arm  and  hold  me,  as  if  I  or  they  belonged  to  the  brigands. 
The  word  which  one  hears  has  buried  within  it  a  whole  his- 
tory of  society — ti  douleia,  what  occupation  is  yours — liter- 
ally what  slave-labor  is  yours,  for  in  antiquity  the  slave 
chiefly  labored  ;  but  now  that  word  has  come  to  mean  simply 
work,  thus  resembling  our  word  service.  As  the  slave  has 
risen  into  the  free  laborer  in  the  course  of  centuries,  so  has 
that  word  been  ennobled  along  with  him,  till  now  there  is  no 
object  corresponding  to  its  former  sense,  and  it  indicates 
one  weighty  point  of  superiority  which  modern  has  over 
ancient  Greece.  Ti  douleia  still  heard  on  these  hills  gives  a 
peep  back  through  two  thousand  years  when  slave  met  slave 
on  this  spot  and  asked :  what  slave-labor  is  yours  ? 

Before  a  house  or  rather  in  the  door  of  a  house  in  one 
place  a  man -sits  thrumming  a  stringed  instrument  whose 
notes  vibrate  softly  on  the  sunbeams  in  some  secret  harmony, 
you  must  believe,  with  the  mellow  golden  afternoon.  It 
may  be  the  old  lyre  in  one  of  its  forms,  it  has  the  sweet  low 


228  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

thrill  of  the  Italian  m'andoliue  when  there  is  a  perfect  lull  in 
the  air.  Into  its  strain  there  fall  at  intervals  the  stray  notes 
of  a  song,  as  if  the  idle  player  was  merely  preluding  at  ran- 
dom to  his  own  vacant  fancies.  In  front  of  his  eye  as  it 
glances  out  of  the  door  lies  the  .harbor  of  Aulis  whose  distant 
waters  seem  to  be  gently  quivering  to  the  touch  of  the  in- 
strument. Will  any  one  blame  the  traveler  as  too  fantastic, 
if  he  again  thinks  of  Homer's  men — of  Achilles  who  was 
found  before  his  tent  playing  his  harp  to  his  own  dear  soul, 
when  the  embassy  of  Greek  chieftains  came  to  pacify  his 
anger  and  to  urge  his  return  to  the  war?  But  this  present 
hero  is  not  Achilles,  nor  does  he  seem  to  have  any  destruc- 
tive wrath,  nor  has  he  lost  his  Briseis,  who  just  now  stands 
before  his  tent  wrestling  violently  with  a  sullied  fustanella. 

Therefore  we  may  pass  on.  But  at  the  view  of  the  bay 
and  of  the  hills  the  secret  combat  rises  again  in  the  breast, 
the  two  antique  forms  come  up  with  startling  distinctness, 
filled  with  their  intense  conflict.  Do  what  you  will,  every 
other  deed,  every  other  shape  is  swallowed  up  in  the  strug- 
gle between  father  and  daughter.  She,  the  young,  the  in- 
nocent, the  spotless,  must  be  immolated  to  a  supposed 
necessity  of  State.  That  the  winds  may  blow  favorably, 
and  the  armament  sail  successfully  to  the  Trojan  shore, 
her  sacrifice  is  demanded,  for  to  the  Greek,  to  her  own  father 
far  more  important  it  seemed  that  Helen  should  return  than 
that  Iphigenia  should  live.  It  is  an  old  but  undying  theme, 
which  both  ancient  and  modern  poets  have  treated  with  a 
tragic  depth  and  energy;  woman,  guiltless  and  removed 
from  political  strife,  is  nevertheless  snatched  from  the  Family 
and  made  to  suffer  or  even  to  perish  that  ends  of  State  may 
be  attained :  whether  she  be  the  king's  own  daughter  Iphi- 


Aulis  and  ChalJds.  229 

\ 
genia,  offered  for  the  sake  of  the  great  national  enterprise, 

or  the  modern  princess,  Blanche,  led  to  a  political  marriage 
bringing  peace  to  the  nation  perhaps,  but  to  herself  only 
wretchedness  and  slow  death. 

Furthermore,  that  these  early  Greeks  should  sacrifice  vir- 
gin purity  to  beauty  distained  is  a  prophecy,  a  double  pro- 
phecy :  it  foretells  the  supreme  glory  of  their  career,  and  at 
the  same  time  indicates  the  moral  disease  which  must  finally 
eat  away  their  character  and  energy.  They  will  bring  back 
Helen  to  Greece  and  realize  beauty  beyond  all  other  peoples, 
but  the  ethical  violation  hinted  in  the  death  of  Iphigenia  will 
remain  and  become  the  seed  of  inner  corruption.  For  mark ! 
she  and  what  she  represents  is  gone,  destroyed ;  her  fate  will 
wake  the  avenging  Nemesis  that  will  bring  back  her  loss  to 
the  people  who  have  immolated  her,  and  hence  possess  her 
no  longer.  Thus  they  reveal  themselves  and  their  destiny  in 
their  legend. 

It  is  true  that  the  ancient  legend  rescues  Iphigenia  from  the 
sacrificial  altar  by  the  intervention  of  the  Goddess  Artemis. 
But  she  is  taken  to  a  barbarous  land,  to  Tauris,  where  she  is 
preserved  as  a  priestess  to  the  divinity  who  saved  her ;  there 
too  she  becomes  the  bearer  of  all  that  Greece  represents. 
Again  look  at  the  prophetic  image  in  the  legend,  for  it  is  the 
Barbarians,  that  is,  those  who  are  not  Greeks,  the  modern 
world  if  you  please,  who  have  taken  up  and  saved  Iphigenia, 
cherishing  her  with  a  deathless  affection,  while  she  on  the 
other  hand  as  priestess  of  the  temple  in  foreign  lands,  has 
brought  to  them  the  humanizing  influences  of  Greek  culture. 
Chiefly  from  snch  a  point  of  view  is  the  famous  Iphigenia  of 
Goethe  written,  the  finest  of  all  the  dramatic  elaborations  of 
this  legend.  In  it  we  see  the  modern  Barbarian,  now  the 


230  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

Poet,  filled  with  the  inspiration  of  the  Grecian  priestess,  and 
paying  back  to  her  a  tribute  greater  and  more  beautifiul 
than  anything  which  she  herself  has  received  or  transmitted. 

But  the  old  Greek  legend  likewise  brings  her  back  from 
Tauris,  after  many  years  of  banishment  and  priestly  service, 
to  Greece,  restores  her  from  the  hands  of  the  Barbarians  to 
her  ancient  home.  Such  is  indeed  that  prophetic  myth  which 
our  own  time  has  seen  fulfilled,  but  which  the  dawn  of 
Goethe's  poem  has  not  yet  beheld.  For  it  is  the  strong  arm 
of  those  whom  Greece  called  Barbarians,  but  to  whom  she 
imparted  her  culture,  which  has  broken  her  chains  and  re- 
stored her  to  freedom  and  nationality.  Nay,  they  have 
brought  back  her  own  civilization  to  herself,  increased  with 
tenfold  spoils,  it  is  true,  but  still  bearing  her  impress.  So 
we  may  now  say  with  the  old  legend  that  Iphigenia  has  re- 
turned to  Greece. 

The  account  of  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia  is  not  the 
creation  of  Homer ;  the  entire  story  at  Aulis  he  passes  over 
in  silence.  On  the  contrary  it  is  a  development  of  later 
Greek  consciousness,  of  the  tragic  and  not  of  the  epic  spirit, 
though  it  doubtless  had  its  germ  in  the  Homeric  Age.  This 
intense  conflict  in  which  father  sacrifices  daughter  belongs 
to  the  domain  of  tragedy.  Two  struggling  principles,  each 
with  its  own  right,  assail  each  other  in  the  very  bosom  of 
the  Family,  and  just  in  that  point  where  its  tenderest  emo- 
tions are  knit  together.  The  time  of  the  tragic  poets  was 
indeed  a  tragic  time,  whereof  they  are  the  true  outgrowth,  a 
time  in  which  Greece  was  immolating  her  own  daughter,  and 
was-  growing  conscious  of  the  fact,  which  consciousness 
found  its  intense  expression  in  the  drama. 

Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  we  must  not  misunderstand  that 


Aulis  and  Ghalkis.  231 

father,  Agamemnon.  He  was  leader  of  the  Greek  hosts, 
the  representative  of  the  Greek  State ;  moreover  he  possessed 
the  heroic  character,  which  sacrifices  all  feelings  to  the  pub- 
lic end,  and  courageously  endures.  The  pang  in  his  breast 
for  the  death  of  his  child  was  as  great  as  that  of  any  parent. 
We  must  not  suppose  that  he  was  devoid  of  tenderness  and 
pity ;  on  the  contrary  they  surged  up  and  dashed  around  his 
purpose  like  the  waves  of  the  sea  in  a  tempest.  Still  that 
purpose  stood,  had  to  stand,  firm  as  a  rock  mid  the  terrific 
upheaval  of  emotions ;  for  he  must  be  the  hero,  placed  there 
at  the  head  of  the  expedition,  he  must  subordinate  to  the 
great  national  end  all  his  feelings ;  the  most  piercing  cries 
of  his  own  soul  in  anguish  cannot  make  him  waver  for  a  mo- 
ment. Once  more  take  a  glance  with  me  over  the  waters ; 
can  you  not,  on  yon  round  island  aslant  the  evening  sun- 
beams, behold  the  father,  pale,  trembling,  weeping,  yet 
resolute — now  leading  his  daughter,  robed  in  white  folds,  up 
the  knoll  to  the  altar?  There  is  the  temple  of  Artemis, 
within  whose  marble  embrace  the  two  forms  slowly  dis- 
appear ;  the  eyes  of  the  Greek  hosts  who  look  on  from  this 
shore  with  us,  and  from  the  ships  lying  over  the  bay,  are  not 
dry — nor  are  mine. 

Then  a  voice  comes  to  me  and  asks :  would  you  sacrifice 
your  daughter  to  the  State?  No,  I  would  not,  I  answer, 
not  directly  at  least.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  a  hero,  do  not 
wish  to  be  one.  This  is  sentimental,  it  is  true;  but  I  am 
sentimental  upon  this  subject.  I  do  not  wish  to  pay  such  a 
large  price  for  heroism,  I  prefer  to  be  ignoble  and  keep  my 
Iphigenia.  Still  Agamemnon  paid  it,  had  to  pay  it,  all  great 
world-historical  characters  pay  that  or  a  greater  price  for 
their  destiny.  This  is  just  the  tragedy  of  the  hero — the 


232  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

conflict  within  tears  him  to  pieces ;  still  he,  subjecting  his 
emotions  to  his  principle,  heroically  makes  the  sacrifice. 
But  we  have  no  such  sacrifice  to  make  in  this  expedition, 
praise  be  to  Artemis  and  the  rest  of  the  Gods ;  no  world  - 
sustaining  heroism  is  now  required ;  all  the  omens  are  pro- 
pitious, all  the  winds  are  favorable ;  besides,  we  are  going  to 
take  a  new  route  in  the  pursuit  of  the  fair  runaway. 

Thus  the  Agamemnon  of  the  Iliad  is  not  wholly  the  Aga- 
memnon of  Aulis,  though  the  two  fuse  together  in  the  imag- 
ination ;  the  latter  the  tragedians  have  modeled,  making  him 
the  bearer  of  a  terrific  internal  struggle,  in  addition  to 
his  being  in  the  external  struggle  with  Troy,  which 
now  falls  into  the  background.  This  transition  from  the 
outer  to  the  inner  conflict  indicates  a  deepening  of  life  and 
of  consciousness ;  spiritual  suffering  has  seized  hold  of  man, 
and  that  simple,  happy  epical  world  of  Homer  has  departed 
forever.  Such  is  the  soul  of  the  legend  which  can  be  felt 
even  through  the  superficial  half -mocking  treatment  of  Euri- 
pides. Still  the  scenery  of  Aulis  throws  the  beholder  into 
that  ancient  tragic  struggle,  he  lives  it  over  again  within 
himself  as  he  saunters  around  the  hills,  looks  up  at  the  skies, 
and  floats  over  the  waters. 

Whether  these  characters  were  ever  living  persons  or  not, 
whether  the  Trojan  war  be  historical  or  not,  can  make  little 
difference.  That  conflict  has  furnished  the  most  abiding 
types  for  the  race,  types  of  heroism,  endurance,  wisdom. 
And  what  more  can  History  do  than  furnish  its  great  char- 
acters— those  eternal  symbols  by  which  whole  ages  think,  live 
and  die?  Here  at  Aulis  once  more  rises  the  thought  of  the 
struggle  between  the  East  and  the  West;  all  the  Greek 
armament  was  animated  by  this  principle ;  the  Iliad  is  but 


Aulis  and  Chalkis.  233 

the  first  heroic  utterance  of  the  conflict.  The  day  lowers, 
but  the  traveler  is  filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  air — it  is  the 
same  air  breathed  by  those  ancient  heroes  and  is  still  laden 
with  all  the  energy  of  the  old  enterprise.  Nay,  the  conflict 
between  East  and  West  is  here  before  him  to-day,  smothered 
though  quivering,  as  he  looks  out  toward  Troy. 

My  friends,  you  will  recollect  that  our  last  turning- 
point  whence  we  began  a  new  direction  in  our  journay, 
was  at  Marathon.  The  battle  there  was  historical — the 
greatest  battle  in  History.  On  its  plain  the  East  and  West 
grappled ;  it  was  the  East  which  then  attacked,  but  was  vic- 
toriously met  and  repulsed.  We  have  marched  forward  to 
Aulis,  it  is  true,  but  in  reality  we  have  gone  backward  into 
the  twilight  of  fable.  Now  the  Greeks  are  the  aggressive 
side,  and  assail  their  enemies  on  Asiatic  soil,  yet  it  is  the 
same  question,  the  same  principle  at  issue.  But  to  pass  from 
Marathon  to  Aulis  means  to  remount  from  clear  history  into 
the  misty  mythical  origin ;  still  this  myth  expresses  better 
than  history  the  dim  primitive  instinct,  the  unconscious 
germ  of  the  Hellenic  world.  This  goal,  then,  we  have 
reached,  yet  not  the  further  road  to  Troy  shall  we  go,  but 
turn  from  Aulis  and  move  forward  to  a  still  deeper  phase  of 
Greek  spirit, — to  the  seat  of  oracular  wisdom  and  of  recon- 
ciliation. Through  Thebes,  full  of  profounder  tragic  des- 
tinies than  even  Aulis,  we  shall  pass  toward  the  place  of 
harmony,  toward  the  God  whom  Hellas  chiefly  adored  in  the 
greatest  and  intensest  period  of  her  life,  and  whom  she  be- 
sought to  harmonize  her  inner  struggles.  In  the  track  of 
Orestes  driven  by  Furies,  we  shall  approach  the  temple  of 
Apollo  the  light-darter,  who  could  bring  atonement  to  the 
guilty  soul  and  thus  solve  the  ahcient  tragedy.  Here  then 


234  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

we  stand  at  the  very  opening  of  our  Western  world.  Hav- 
ing courageously  marched  thus  far,  and  having  cast  many 
delighted  glances  into  that  dawn  across  the  sea,  we  may 
catch  breath  again  for  a  few  moments  before  we  turn  up  the 
road  toward  Delphi,  the  next  stadium  of  Greek  civilization. 


TALK  NINTH. 


From  Aulis  to  Thebes. 

Early  in  the  morning  Varvouillya  stood  before  the  wine- 
shop with  his  two  donkeys ;  he  called  me  out,  who  was 
there  celebrating  a  farewell  to  Aulis  in  company  with  three 
or  four  citizens.  I  grasped  my  staff  and  knapsack  and 
hurried  into  the  street,  Varvouillya  grunted  at  the  beasts  of 
destiny,  and  our  procession  began  to  move  up  through  the 
main  thoroughfare  of  Aulis  towards  Thebes.  The  Cretan 
schoolmaster  with  friendly  smiles  came  out  of  his  house  and 
saluted  me ;  in  the  sunshine  of  this  Greek  morning  he  looks 
as  if  he  had  resolved  during  the  night  never  to  get  into  a 
bad  humor  again,  being  now  in  the  first  full  glow  of  his  new 
resolution.  Also  the  Nestor  of  the  hamlet  appeared,  stand- 
ing before  his  gate  and  leaning  on  his  staff,  with  enthusi- 
astic gleams  ploughing  his  wrinkled  features  as  I  shook  his 
hand.  Happy  old  man,  with  a  background  to  his  age  fresh 
as  the  blooming  meadows ;  for  behold  that  young  Greek 
wife  of  his  now  peering  out  of  the  door  behind  him,  with  a 
babe  in  her  arms.  One  may  well  liken  him  to  the  aged 


23G  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

olive-tree  of  Aulis,  not  far  from  which  he  is  standing — 
wrinkled,  bent,  silvern-haired,  but  ever  sending  forth  fresh 
blossoms. 

The  village  was  astir  for  the  duties  of  the  day,  white  fus- 
tanellas  were  hurrying  in  every  direction  toward  the  fields. 
Many  women  were  already  at  the  various  pools  and  foun- 
tains engaged  in  heavy  labor,  others  were  passing  thither 
with  rude  troughs  and  batlets  on  their  shoulders.  Soon  the 
last  house  is  behind  us,  and  we  see  the  husbandman  at  his 
work ;  he  is  trimming  his  vineyard  or  plowing  with  a  yoke 
of  oxen,  seldom  with  horses.  The  plow  which  he  employs 
has  a  very  primitive  look,  not  very  different  from  the 
Homeric  plow.  Yet  I  ought  in  justice  to  add  that  along  my 
route  I  have,  also  seen  modern  plows.  The  land  which  he 
turns  over  seems  rich  where  it  is  arable,  but  it  is  often 
rocky.  Certainly  a  much  greater  portion  of  it  could  be 
brought  under  cultivation ;  some  blastment  rests  upon  the 
soil,  lying  here  rudely  tilled  or  often  wholly  neglected.  The 
earth,  the  great  original  implement  of  man,  is  not  half  util- 
ized by  those  who  are  wielding  it  here  at  present. 

The  morning  changes  to  heaviness,  the  sky  lowers  and 
begins  to  threaten,  except  from  the  East  where  through  a 
rifted  cloud  Helius  persists  at  short  intervals  in  strewing  his 
golden  arrows  over  the  Euboic  hills.  What  are  you  think- 
ing of  as  you  gaze  at  the  heavens  ?  On  such  a  morning  as 
this  the  ancient  sacrifice  might  have  been  made ;  through 
the  darkened  canopy  above,  the  Goddess  broke  in  efful- 
gence and  rescued  the  virgin  from  the  altar.  On  the  Euri- 
pus  are  now  standing  white  sails,  in  listless  calm,  seeming 
to  rise  straight  out  of  the  water,  for  in  that  distance  no  hull 
can  be  distinguished.  Two  or  three  such  little  boats  are  at 


Aulis  to  Thebes  237 

this  moment  to  be  seen,  flecking  the  blue  surface ;  each  sail 
is  an  expanded  swan's  wing  hovering  over  the  sea;  they 
multiply  at  once  to  a  thousand  sails  floating  around  the  full- 
swelling  island  capped  by  the  white  temple.  Scarce  a 
breath  of  wind  can  be  felt,  certainly  there  are  now  no  un- 
favorable breezes  for  Troy,  the  Goddess  has  been  manifestly 
appeased  this  morning. 

The  locality  grows  upon  the  traveler,  and  he  leaves  it  un- 
willingly. Slowly  he  walks  up  the  slightly  ascending  plain 
which  lies  to  the  rear  of  Aulis ;  often  he  turns  around  and 
looks  at  the  sea,  fair  Euripus,  whose  waters  are  still  quiver- 
ing in  the  distance  with  some  hidden  strong  emotion ;  he  is 
indeed  parting  from  that  which  he  loves.  He  is  filled  with 
the  spirit  of  the  air  which  is  charged  with  the  ancient  enter- 
prise. Doubtless  memory  aids  him  in  calling  up  that  world 
long  since  passed  away ;  but  there  must  be  something  else, 
I  believe ;  there  must  be  some  hidden  sympathy  of  nature, 
for  nature,  too,  preserves  dim  memories  of  the  great  deeds 
that  have  been  enacted  before  her,  and  retains  the  faint  im- 
press of  heroic  forms  that  have  once  been  in  her  presence. 
So  he  would  fain  think ;  at  any  rate,  there  is  the  one  emo- 
tion, the  one  central  figure  here.  Ah  Iphigenia,  what  a 
symbol  has  thou  become  for  men !  All  thy  struggles,  all 
the  struggles  of  thy  wretched  parent  rise  in  my  breast  as  I 
thread  around  up  the  hills.  I  have  to  wrestle  through  thy 
conflicts,  they  seethe  within  me  as  if  they  were  my  own ;  I 
am  indeed  become  one  with  thee.  Now  I  turn  across  the 
last  comb  of-  the  hill,  Aulis  passes  out  of  sight,  still  thy 
struggles  are  racing  within  me  nor  can  I  rid  myself  of  thy 
heart-piercing  destiny.  Why  is  it,  I  ask  myself.  Because 
thou  are  truly  a  sacred  symbol  of  mankind,  not  a  mere 


238  A  Walk  in  Helta*. 

thing  of  reality — thou  art  a  Universal,  embracing  all  men  in 
thy  sad  destiny,  and  for  them  thou  dost  suffer. 

Yet  it  is  but  a  story,  there  is  no  reality  in  all  these 
events,  they  never  took  place.  This  does  aot  alter  the  case, 
in  fact  it  increases  their  significance.  Very  profound  and 
far-reaching  is  the  saying  of  the  old  philosopher,  that  fable  is 
truer  than  history.  The  legends  of  the  race  are  still  worth 
more  than  its  history,  its  poets  are  to  be  placed  a  great  way 
before  its  historians.  The  pure  fact  is  often  an  insignificant 
thing  compared  to  the  pure  fancy.  For  the  fable  of  a  peo- 
ple can  embrace  its  whole  truth — all  that  it  spiritually 
possesses,  institutions,  religion,  art,  character.  No  mere 
record  of  what  happened  here  and  there,  no  account  of 
political  and  social  events  can  show  its  entire  life,  its  whole 
truth.  But  the  genuine  myth  will  manifest  its  vital  princi- 
ple and  put  the  same  into  an  eternal  type  outside  of  Space 
and  Time ;  while  history  is  of  all  things  in  Space  and  Time, 
broken  off  at  each  end,  and  often  cracked  badly  in  the  mid- 
dle. Yet  do  not  underrate  history — only  this  torso  is  ours 
to-day,  and  we  should  preserve  it  with  sacred  care  as  our 
chief  boon ;  for  we  moderns  can  no  longer  make  myths,  we 
can  make  only  history.  But  if  there  be  a  few  who  may  still 
be  able  to  construct  a  mythical  world,  we  may  well  give 
them  the  honors  due  to  the  High  Priest  and  the  Prophet. 

Still  certain  historical  questions  will  arise  at  Aulis,  and 
demand  some  answer.  It  is  the  play  of  erudition  to  give  as 
many  responses  as  possible,  since  all  of  them  are  equally 
without  value.  One  such  question  comes  up  before  me  just 
now :  why  was  Aulis  selected  as  the  place  of  assembling  the 
forces  of  Greece  ?  Or,  why  did  the  Poet  select  this  spot  ? 
Either  of  these  inquiries  must  remain  a  question  of  mere  his- 


Aulis  to  Thebes.  239 

toric  probability,  and  hence  any  answer  to  it  is  intrinsically 
worthless.  Aulis  is  as  good  a  geographical  center  as  any 
other  protected  harbor  in  Greece ;  but  for  no  small  portion  of 
the  armament  it  was  the  less  convenient  place.  Let  us  then 
conjecture  political  reasons :  the  restoration  of  Helen  was 
the  cause  of  Southern  Greece,  of  Menelaus  and  Agamem- 
non ;  it  was,  therefore,  necessary  to  take  every  means  of 
interesting  and  arousing  Northern  Greece,  of  giving  to  that 
part  of  the  country  the  easiest  opportunity  of  assembling. 
Ulysses  did  not  want  to  come,  according  to  the  legend ;  his 
little  island  lay  far  off  to  one  side.  But  Boeotia,  Thessaly, 
Phthia,  and  northern  Greece  generally  would  center  here. 
So  we  may  go  on  spinning  conjectures  indefinitely;  they 
are  the  merest  figments  of  probability ;  the  answer  to  such 
questions,  however  plausible,  must  be  in  the  nature  of  the 
case,  without  import. 

Historic  probabilities  let  us  have  as  little  to  do  with  as 
possible ;  they  are  the  poorest  glass  beads  that  we  can  pick 
up  on  our  way ;  very  sparingly  shall  they  be  strung  on  the 
variegated  strand  which  is  now  being  made  out  of  the  inci- 
dents of  our  Greek  journey.  For  instance,  what  concerns 
it  thee  whether  Achilles  was  ever  in  flesh  and  blood,  whether 
he  ever  was  a  spatial  reality  or  not?  Two  things  can  at 
present  be  affirmed  of  him  with  great  certainty :  first,  that 
his  flesh  and  blood  are  now  earth-mould,  if  he  ever  possessed 
them ;  secondly,  that  he  still  exists  as  spirit  and  will  exist 
perdurably.  The  last  fact  is  the  interesting  and  worthy  one 
for  us  in  many  ways — it  even  hints  what  there  is  immortal 
here  on  earth.  But  the  great  question  of  erudition  whether 
this  soul  or  the  hero  ever  had  any  body,  may  be  dismissed 
without  loss.  And  that  still  greater  question  of  poverty- 


240  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

stricken  erudition  whether  Homer  be  really  Homer  or  some- 
body else  of  the  same  name,  as  the  perplexed  student  once 
put  it  most  accurately,  ought  to  be  cast  away  as  a  worthless 
counterfeit  of  Greek  gold.  Suppose  that  he  is,  suppose 
that  he  is  not,  suppose  anything — what  difference  does  it 
make?  Will  that  give  us  a  new  Odyssey,  or  will  it  inter- 
pret for  us  the  old  one  ?  Yet  there  is  a  tuneful  spirit  called 
Homer  singing  through  the  ages ;  even  now  a  voice  comes 
riding  on  the  air,  saying :  why  hunt  after  my  body  which 
has  perished,  why  seek  for  my  existence  in  Space  and  Time 
which  has  vanished?  Listen  to  my  voice — that  is  my  im- 
mortal part,  that  is  what  I  have  left  unto  you  as  my  sole 
gift.  By  that  alone  may  I  be  remembered ! 

I  have  employed  the  word  symbol  quite  frequently,  but  I 
must  give  you  a  warning  in  regard  to  its  use.  The  symbol- 
ism of  the  Greeks  in  their  great  creative  period  was  not 
conscious,  was  not  design.  They  did  not  say :  come  let  us 
go  to  and  make  a  symbol  for  all  the  world  and  for  all  time. 
Then  they  had  not  done  it,  they  would  have  lost  the  very 
germ  of  their  Art — spontaneity.  Unwittingly  in  all  the  little 
particulars  of  their  life  and  their  activity  they  manifested 
the  Generic,  the  Universal — they  could  not  help  being 
artists.  For  Art  must  always  have  this  universal  side,  must 
be  a  symbol — yet  on  the  other  hand  it  cannot  be  divorced 
from  the  living  spontaneous  actuality.  To  succeeding  times 
the  unconscious  insight  of  the  Poet  may  become  a  conscious 
reflection ;  but  then  its  true  poetical  nature  has  departed. 
Later  in  their  history  the  Greeks  betook  themselves  to  con- 
scious symbolizing ;  little  heed  do  we  pay  to  that  part  of 
their  work  now.  We  may  know  more  about  the  Poet's  pro- 
cess than  he  does  himself ;  we  stand  and  look  on  while  the 


Aulis  and  Tliebes.  241 

demon  struggles  within  him,  imparting  inspiration  or  fury 
perchance ;  but  his  and  not  ours  is  the  poetic  creative  act, 
ours  is  rather  the  act  of  destruction.  The  symbol,  recollect 
then,  whenever  the  term  is  employed,  lays  stress  upon  this 
universal  and  eternal  element  in  all  artistic  creation,  yet 
does  not  imply  conscious  purpose  on  part  of  the  artist. 

But  Aulis  has  now  passed  out  of  view,  and  must  be  drop- 
ped ;  we  have  entered  a  small  valley  through  which  we  are 
winding  solitary ;  only  flocks  of  birds  rise  from  the  fields, 
whirl  in  the  air  for  a  moment,  then  flutter  into  the  low 
bushes.  There  are  no  trees,  the  soil  is  untilled,  yet  seems 
capable  of  some  cultivation.  The  valley  is  delightful,  the 
breathing  of  its  atmosphere  is  like  a  draught  of  mild  wine ; 
it  is  watered  by  a  brook  running  through  the  middle,  along 
whose  border  passes  the  road,  Up  this  road  or  rather 
bridle-path  Varvouillya  is  driving  his  donkeys  which  move 
slowly  through  the  landscape  with  their  look  of  Oriental 
resignation. 

I  have  now  been  with  Varvouillya  nearly  five  days,  and 
have  conceived  a  strong  liking  for  the  man.  He  is  a  charac- 
ter— hardy  and  rugged,  yet  somewhat  mysterious,  and  I 
hold  him  to  be  honest.  For  forty  years  he  has  driven  his 
donkeys  over  these  hills  in  the  way  of  transportation  and 
small  trading.  At  Aulis  he  acquired  in  some  transaction  an 
old  flint-lock  which  he  now  carries  slung  over  his  shoulders. 
He  knows  every  point  of  the  countrj',  and  is  acquainted  with 
every  human  being  we  meet.  Though  without  education  he 
has  picked  up  in  this  mode  of  life  a  great  deal  of  curious 
information,  half  mythical,  half  actual ;  thereto  he  adds  ex- 
perience with  men  and  a  rude  subtlety.  Moreover  he  is  the 
possessor  of  a  strong  rough  will,  with  a  very  decided  im- 


242  ,     A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

pulse  of  generosity  and  of  hospitable  feeling.  He  is 
evidently  recognized  as  a  sort  of  leader  among  these  people ; 
he  is  of  them,  yet  with  a  little  stronger  purpose,  which  they 
feel  and  call  him  playfully  by  the  name  of  Capitanos. 
Humor  and  mockery  he  possesses  in  a  true  Greek  vein ;  be- 
hind the  wine-table  he  sits  deep- voiced,  with  a  phthisicky 
laugh  which  always  ends  in  a  red-faced  fit  of  coughing  after 
he  brings  out  the  point  to  one  of  his  best  stories.  This 
cough  is  always  heard  in  chorus  with  the  laughter  of  the 
merry  company. 

Thus  I  have  seen  him  during  these  days,  and  a  strong  at- 
tachment has  grown  up  between  us ;  to  his  appearance,  even 
to  his  garments,  I  am  now  fully  reconciled,  though  at  first 
both  were  objects  of  distrust.  Unshaven  for  some  weeks, 
his  beard  comes  out  bnstling  over  his  face  in  frosty  stubble ; 
bis  hair  too  is  grizzled  by  age,  but  is  still  full  of  spirit ;  a 
small  stained  cap  fitting  close  to  his  head  but  unable  to  re- 
strain bunches  of  hair  from  gushing  out  in  front  of  his  fore- 
head, is  not  out  of  harmony  with  the  man  and  his  general 
costume.  His  body  is  slim,  wiry,  and  supple ;  the  stubbled 
face,  when  he  speaks,  is  lit  with  a  smile  rudely  generous ;  a 
large  wart  lies  just  on  the  tip  of  his  nose,  and  flattens  out, 
spreading  all  over  the  same  when  he  laughs. 

But  the  mental  trait  which  chiefly  distinguishes  him  is  the 
mystery  in  which  he  vails  himself  to  the  world  and  the  world 
to  himself.  He  has  his  own  view  of  the  way  in  which  things 
are  done  in  this  universe  of  ours:  a  supernatural  power 
peculiar  to  himself  reigns  in  the  invisible  realm.  He  is 
what  many  deep  but' uninformed  natures  are — a-  mystic,  per- 
haps superstitious ;  in  his  struggles  of  life  events  have  taken 
place  which  he  cannot  account  for  by  ordinary  experience, 


Aulis  and  Thebes.  243 

and  so  he  has  a  special  solution  of  his  own.  Driving  his 
mules  for  forty  years  over  the  lone  hills  he  has  had  time  to 
think  in  his  uncouth  way ;  but  he  cannot  lift  the  cloud  from 
the  world,  nor  from  himself,  and  he  has  landed  where  nearly 
all  ignorant  but  inquiring  men  arrive  in  the  end.  Appear- 
ances just  in  this  locality  have  obliged  him  to  resort  to  a 
mystical  machinery ;  if  I  understand  him  aright  there  is  in 
him  a  dash  of  the  old  Greek  belief  in  Pan,  nymphs  and 
satyrs,  yet  not  now  dancing  in  ancient  sunlight,  but  enveloped 
dimly  in  clouds.  Indeed  who  can  live  in  intimacy  with  this 
Nature  without  feeling  her  old  influence  at  work  upon  his 
soul?  Still  she  subtly  creates  her  ancient  forms  for  the 
true-hearted  worshipper  leisurely  resigning  himself  to  her 
shaping  hand  ;  even  the  prosaic  traveler  she  will  transform, 
to  the  wonder  of  everybody,  if  he  but  submit  in  good  faith 
to  her  gentle  guidance. 

Varvouillya  is  a  curious  compound  of  the  ancient  and 
modern,  he  is  mixed  like  the  language  he  speaks,  like  Greece 
of  to-day.  He  was  born  in  Janina  under  Turkish  rule ;  the 
secretiveness  begotten  of  Turkish  oppression  still  lurks  in 
his  character.  In  many  ways  he  is  the  contrast  to  the 
traveling  merchant  Aristides  previously  mentioned — far 
more  reserved,  less  intelligent,  with  much  less  education, 
yet  with  a  stronger  character.  I  doubt  whether  he  can  read 
the  newspaper,  which  with  its  contents  seems  to  Mm  to  lie 
\n  the  world  of  mystery.  But  both  of  them  are  men  of  in- 
fluence, both  are  true  Greeks,  both  believe  in  the  great  Idea, 
though  Varvouillya  sees  it  rather  dimly,  both  are  a  kind  of 
mediators  for  the  communities  which  they  visit. 

Off  to  our  left  at  some  distance  lay  the  ancient  town  of 
Tanagra,  through  whose  neighborhood  we  cannot  pass  with- 


244  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

out  a  delightful  thrill  of  memory.  A  little  community  it 
was  with  its  own  distinctive  character,  as  we  can  plainly  see 
from  ancient  books ;  an  ideal  sense  of  the  Beautiful  and  of 
the  Divine  prevailed  there  in  pleasing  contrast  to  other 
towns.  The  fairest  youth  was  selected  to  carry  the  sacred 
lamb  at  the  festival  of  Hermes;  the  shrines  and  temples 
were  built  by  them  away  from  the  profane  part  of  the  town, 
away  from  business  places  and  dwelling  houses.  An  ancient 
observer  has  celebrated  the  women  of  Tanagra,  giving  them 
the  palm  over  all  Greek  women  for  graceful  form  and  har- 
monious movement. 

It  seems  to  have  nourished  a  peculiar  phase  of  Art  too, 
springing  from  its  special  character,  and  uttering  the  same 
in  beauty.  Recently  this  Art  has  been  resurrected  from  its 
tombs,  and  the  Tanagra  figurines  in  our  day  have  carried 
the  name  over  the  world,  coupled  with  a  sweet  grace  and 
delicate  form.  Only  some  six  or  seven  years  ago  did  this 
great  resurrection  of  the  old  Boeotian  town  take  place,  giv- 
ing us  many  a  peep  at  its  life  and  manners,  even  at  its  fash- 
ions and  frivolities.  Eight  thousand  tombs  are  reported  to 
have  given  up  their  shapes,  which,  like  restless  ghosts,  have 
wandered  into  eveiy  corner  of  the  globe.  At  present,  how- 
ever, Tanagra  is  quiet  again,  and  the  cornfields  are  growing 
over  its  sepulchres. 

But  that  which  gives  to  the  town  its  chief  title  to  remem- 
brance, is  the  female  poet  whom  it  produced,  beautiful  Cor- 
inna,  she  who  is  said  to  have  won  prizes  over  Pindar  and 
even  to  have  been  the  teacher  of  the  Theban  bard.  Her 
fame  was  the  town's  fairest  jewel,  her  image  was  seen  in  its 
most  prominent  places,  she  was  altogether  its  greatest  name 
during  many  centuries  of  its  existence — she,  a  woman  and  a 


Aulis  and  Thebes.  245 

poetess  some  500  years  Before  Christ.  Long  and  nobly  was 
she  remembered,  and  if  she  was  able  to  surpass  the  greatest 
lyric  poet  of  all  time,  what  skill  may  we  not  suppose  to  have 
been  hers  ?  But  an  ancient  authority  slyly  hints  that  it  was 
her  beauty  more  than  her  poetry  which  moved  the  judges  of 
the  contest,  for  she  was  also  the  most  beautiful  woman  of 
her  period.  An  old  traveler  more  that  six  hundred  years 
after  her  death  still  beheld  her  monuments  in  her  native 
town;  in  the  gymnasium  was  her  picture  bound  with  a 
triumphal  wreath  in  honor  of  her  victory  over  Pindar.  Thus 
the  little  community  loyally  kept  before  themselves  their 
greatest  character — a  poetess ;  wherever  they  are,  her 
image  must  fall  into  their  eyes.  One  of  those  Tanagra 
figurines  I  take  to  be  Corinna,  with  lines  from  her  picture 
possibly ;  nor  can  anybody  help  thinking  of  her,  when  he 
notes  the  type  common  to  all  these  images,  as  if  the  town  in 
its  character  and  in  its  works  moulded  itself  instinctively 
after  its  supreme  personage.  She  was  its  ideal,  she  will, 
therefore,  be  the  inner  creative  principle  of  all  that  its  peo- 
ple are  or  do. 

But  we  ask  for  her  words  and  her  music,  for  the  utterance 
of  hers  which  may  have  come  down  to  us.  Alas !  it  is  all 
broken  and  disjointed,  very  difficult  to  piece  together  now. 
Time  has  shivered  her  lyre  into  fragments,  of  which  many  are 
lost,  others  remain  incoherent ;  a  few  indistinct  sounds  of 
her  voice  you  may  with  effort  catch  out  of  the  distance. 
Still  she  is  the  prophecy  of  the  poetess,  whom  we  all  have  to 
recognize  in  our  day,  somewhat  as  those  old  citizens  of  Tan- 
agra did.  A  broken  murmur  of  song  only  is  left  of  her 
strain;  still  we  may  think  of  her  in  her  own  image,  "  sing- 
ing sweet  love  notes  to  the  white-robed  dames  of  Tanagra, 


246  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

and   greatly   delighted   is   my   city   at  the   clear-twittering 
voice." 

Such  was  our  ancient  Tanagra,  with  its  temples  and 
famous  statues ;  above  all,  with  its  poetess,  beautiful  Cor- 
inna,  the  divine  utterance,  both  in  form  and  in  speech,  of 
Tanagra.  But,  threading  up  the  valley  in  company  with  our 
reflections,  we  have  suddenly  arrived  at  quite  a  different  sort 
of  habitation,  belonging  to  the  present,  and  with  another 
kind  of  woman  for  its  central  figure.  This  is  the  Wallachian 
village  situated  near  some  springs  which  give  rise  to  the 
small  stream  along  which  we  have  been  passing.  Some 
twenty  or  thirty  families  form  the  community  which  is 
always  ready  to  take  wing  for  othet  parts.  The  dwellings 
are  of  primitive  architecture,  indeed  the  original  pattern  of 
the  house  can  be  studied  here.  Four  forked  posts  are 
driven  into  the  ground,  and  cross-pieces  are  placed  from 
fork  to  fork;  upon  these  cross-pieces  sticks  are  laid,  and 
the  whole  is  covered  with  twigs  over  which  is  a  thatching  of 
straw  or  leaves.  A  court  or  enclosure  made  of  stone  or 
brushwood  is  built  to  each  house,  this  enclosure  is  large 
enough  to  shut  in  the  flock  of  the  owner.  The  Wallachians, 
as  has  been  already  said,  are  shepherds ;  at  present  the  men 
are  absent  from  the  village,  guarding  the  herds  in  the  moun- 
tains. Ferocious  dogs  rush  out  at  us,  but  a  mere  motion 
from  Varvouillya,  as  if  he  were  reaching  for  a  stone,  is  suf- 
ficient to  keep  them  at  a  distance. 

Here  again  appears  an  ever-recurring  scene  in  the  Greek 
landscape:  the  women  of  the  village  washing  at  the  foun- 
tain. Their  costume  verges  toward  the  undraped ;  there  is 
such  a  display  of  nudities  and  negligences  that  the  traveler 
is  forcibly  reminded  of  the  antique,  particularly  here  in 


Aulis  and  Thebes.  247 

Greece.  These  forms  are  the  sculpturesque  decoration  of 
every  town  and  fountain.  But  the  Wallachian  women  are 
not  of  classic  mould ;  it  is  easy  to  observe  in  these  people  a 
new  type,  bodies  are  thick  and  broad,  in  contrast  to  the  tall 
thin-waisted  Albanian,  or  to  the  symmetrical  Greek ;  limbs 
which  are  freely  exposed  are  large  and  powerful,  but  some- 
what stumpy;  the  half-opened  bosom  reveals  the  mighty 
mothers  of  the  strong-armed  people.  A  little  study,  which 
the  honest  traveler  will  not  fail  to  give  to  this  matter,  reveals 
the  development  through  labor,  and  not  through  training ;  it 
is  an  irregular  growth  according  to  necessity,  not  the  free, 
harmonious  unfolding  of  all  the  members  according  to  some 
ideal  divine  pattern.  The  garments  of  the  Wallachian  wo- 
men are  parti-colored,  which  is  a  new  contrast  on  this  soil ; 
no  longer  we  see  the  white  robes  of  the  Greek,  but  a  feeling 
for  color  is  noticed — color  without  form,  such  as  is  often 
observed  among  the  more  northern  peasantry  of  Europe. 
The  dresses  are  made  of  colored  patches  and  of  striped 
goods ;  to  the  eye,  now  accustomed  only  to  the  white 
raiment  of  the  country,  this  new  confusion  of  tints  gives 
an  unpleasant  jar. 

The  washers  rub  away  without  paying  much  attention  to 
the  curious  gaze  of  the  passer ;  but  among  them  the  trav- 
eler will  particularly  notice  a  young  woman  with  long  heavy- 
braided  hair  dropping  down  her  back ;  she  is  not  beautiful 
exactly,  but  in  the  exuberant  may-day  of  youth,  rejoicing  in 
the  free  working  of  an  enormous  and  perfectly  healthy 
organism.  Broadness  is  her  characteristic — broad-faced, 
broad-backed,  prodigeously  broad-bottomed,  still  one  cannot 
say  that  she  is  unwieldy.  She  lays  the  garment  which  she 
is  washing  upon  a  stone,  after  lifting  it  from  the  boiling 


248  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

cauldron,  then  she  pounds  it  with  an  immense  bat  or  maul. 
What  a  terrific  swing  in  those  naked  arms,  whose  thews 
double  up  into  huge  knots  as  she  smites  with  her  merciless 
weapon !  And  those  garments,  look  at  them,  if  you  would 
see  from  what  stains  purity  may  come ;  they  require  just 
such  a  bat  swung  by  just  such  arms,  lor  it  is  nothing  short 
of  an  heroic  enterprise  to  make  them  clean — and  here  is  the 
heroine.  Thick-bodied,  invincible,  she  swings  the  bat  with 
shuddering  might ;  the  traveler  will  rejoice  that  he  has  no 
conflict  with  these  arms  of  the  maiden  of  only  sixteen  sum- 
mers. But  who  would  not  take  pleasure  in  beholding  the 
perfect  health  and  the  perfect  working  of  that  organism! 
The  child  of  Nature  she  is  truly,  living  a  life  like  the  birds 
of  the  field,  without  pain,  without  struggle.  She  turns  her 
broad  face  up  to  me,  with  a  look  of  shy  wonder,  while  I 
stand  there ;  but  her  glance  drops  with  a  bashful  smile  when 
she  observes  that  the  stranger  is  noticing  her  and  her  alone ; 
she  seems  to  understand  very  well  that  just  she  has  attracted 
his  attention,  and,  I  believe,  rejoices  in  the  thought.  Throw- 
ing her  braid  back,  yet  never  raising  her  eyes,  she  swings 
again  her  bat,  bringing  it  down  with  an  unearthly  thump, 
much  heavier  than  before,  as  if  to  inspire  with  new  awe  the 
beholder.  But  what  a  luxuriant  sport  of  her  members !  Ex- 
ertion and  strength  are  but  ease ;  every  limb  rollicks  with 
delight  in  its  own  motion.  She  is  not  Helen,  she  does  not 
possess  grace,  or  form ;  but  with  some  curse  that  eye  must 
be  smit  which  can  find  no  pleasure  in  the  perfect  health  and 
massive  exuberance  of  her  physical  development. 

The  village  is  now  left  behind,  and  therewith  this  bit  of  a 
journey  is  accomplished.  It  has  the  characteristic  Greek 
scenery:  a  pleasant  valley  through  which  runs  a  brook,  with 


Aulis  and  Thebes.  249 

hills  on  each  side ;  on  some  small  eminence  the  trace  of  a 
ruin  is  often  noticed ;  the  patient  donkey  plods  through  the 
sunny  noiseless  landscape,  only  the  Greek  driver  breaks  the 
silence  at  intervals  with  his  customary  grunt  of  command  ; 
into  the  whole  view  is  blent  a  mild  shining  repose,  broken  at 
times  to-day  by  fleeting  patches  of  clouds.  It  is  indeed  a 
pleasant  vale  filled  with  many  a  legend  and  many  a  heroic 
form ;  for  this  was  the  route  from  Thebes  to  the  sea,  from 
the  West  to  Aulis.  So  the  traveler  has  no  difficulty  in  fill- 
ing the  solitary  dale  with  ancient  shapes  among  which  he 
moves  with  a  strange  reality,  and  to  which  he  may  even 
speak ;  nay,  in  his  most  exalted  moment  he  may  see  a  faun 
skipping  in  sunshine  over  the  hill-side. 

By  this  time,  the  traveler,  looking  back  at  that  classic  val- 
ley, will  have  run  against  an  embankment,  up  the  sides  of 
which  he  springs  with  curiosity ;  behold,  the  scene  changes. 
The  Great  Road,  the  Megalos  Dromos,  is  now  under  his 
feet,  he  stoops  and  looks  up  and  down  it  wondering  whence 
it  came.  It  is  the  carnage  road  built  by  the  Government  be- 
tween Chalkis  and  Thebes,  and  extends  to  Lebedeia  and  La- 
mia. With  it  the  modern,  in  fact  the  western  world,  breaks 
into  view  suddenly ;  Macadam,  of  euphonious  name,  is  now 
the  hero,  for  the  road  is  macadamized — and  in  that  word  what 
a  diabolic  mixture  of  Greek  and  barbaric  speech !  Rudely 
the  word  jerks  us  out  of  antiquity  and  plunges  us  into  the 
seething  present ;  yet  in  the  olden  time  the  engineer  was  not 
without  fame,  but  was  held  to  be  of  divine  origin,  for  in 
the  ancient  poem  we  read  of  the  road-building  sons  of 
Hephaestus,  who  constructed  the  way  to  Delphic  Apollo, 
whither  we  too  are  going.  Offspring  of  a  God  then  we  may 
hail  the  hero  Macadam,  at  least  in  Greece ;  even  the  modern 


250  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

Great  Road  shall  not  lead  us  out  of  our  antique  realm,  but 
rather  conduct  us  back  into  it  by  a  new  route.  We  are  still 
in  the  Greek  world,  let  us  then  pass  on. 

But  here  a  real  sorrow  overtakes  me :  I  have  to  part  from 
my  friend  Varvouillya  who  has  been  for  so  long  a  time  my 
faithful  companion.  Everything  which  man  may  expect 
from  his  fellowman  in  the  way  of  disinterested  kindness  he 
has  shown  me.  Yet  he  is  a  person  whom  the  ordinary  trav- 
eler seeing  upon  the  highway  would  tremble  at  for  fear  lest 
he  might  be  a  brigand.  I  myself  regarded  him  with  distrust 
at  first,  as  you  will  recollect;  in  spite  of  his  favors  I 
watched  him  closely  all  the  way  from  Marcopoulo  to  Chal- 
kis ;  but  my  suspicion  was  unjust,  I  did  him  a  wrong  which 
I  now  am  trying  to  atone  for.  Under  that  fustanella,  soiled 
though  it  be,  there  beats  a  warm,  hospitable,  honest  heart. 
But  we  must  not  separate  without  a  little  celebration;  a 
wineshop  is  at  the  crossing,  though  the  keeper  is  in  the 
fields  at  work ;  we  call  him  in  and  have  a  final  symposium. 
Putting  me  in  the  Great  Road,  and  pointing  to  the  west,  he 
said:  There,  follow  this  highway  and  in  three  hours  you 
will  be  in  Thebes.  Farewell,  good  Varvouillya,  hardly  shall 
I  meet  thee  again  in  this  journey,  but  I  have  hopes  that  on 
sunny  Olympus  we  shall  again  banquet  together  in  presence 
of  the  Gods. 

Once  more  alone  after  so  many  days,  I  step  off  rapidly 
toward  the  Theban  plain  through  a  sun-filled  but  bracing 
atmosphere.  The  Great  Road  with  its  modern  face  is  not 
unpleasing ;  the  work  on  it  is  excellent.  It  is  built  upon  a 
raised  bed  with  strong  embankments  supported  by  stone 
through  low  places ;  the  outer  dressing  of  broken  rubble  is 
pressed  hard  into  the  dirt.  Along  the  road  at  intervals  are 


Aulis  and  Thebes.  251 

piles  of  rocks  for  the  purpose  of  repair,  and  I  have  not  ob- 
served a  spot  in  it  which  is  out  of  order.  Upon  one  of 
these  piles  after  a  brisk  walk  the  traveler  will  sit  down  to 
rest,  will  take  out  his  map  to  identify  the  various  localities 
which  fall  into  his  vision.  For  the  question  is  always  before 
him :  how  did  this  little  tract  of  land  succeed  in  producing 
such  a  race  of  men,  how  did  it  succeed  in  elevating  itself 
into  the  beautiful  symbol  for  the  whole  human  family? 
One  fact  grinds  itself  into  the  American  brain  here :  a  big 
country  did  not  do  it. 

Still  along  the  spurs  of  the  mountains  the  villages  are 
lying  peacefully  and  beautifully  in  the  sun,  somewhat  as 
they  must  have  done  of  old ;  one  cannot  help  recalling  the 
ancient  in  the  present,  and  think  of  the  stirring  communities 
which  once  lay  upon  these  slopes.  Each  was  roused  by  the 
story  of  Helen,  felt  the  mighty  national  impulse,  and  sent 
its  contingent  to  the  Trojan  war  under  its  strongman;  the 
names  of  towns  and  leaders  can  still  be  read  in  the  famous 
muster-roll  in  the  Iliad.  What  a  development  of  individ- 
uality in  these  small  places !  Each  had  its  autonomous  life, 
its  special  worship  with  temple  to  the  God ;  each  had  its 
hero  and  its  local  legend  connecting  it  with  divinity.  My- 
calessus  could  not  have  been  far  from  this  crossing ;  it  is 
the  spot  where  the  cow  bellowed  which  was  conducting  Cad- 
mus to  Thebes  with  that  wonderful  alphabet  of  his,  still  the 
chief  instrumentality  of  knowledge.  So  says  the  fable,  and 
the  name  of  the  place,  which  is  derived  from  the  beUow  of  a 
cow,  is  cited  in  proof.  Another  legend  was  anciently  told 
here  which  I  like  and  would  fain  believe  in  its  true  sense  : 
Demeter,  Goddess  of  the  harvest,  was  the  presiding  deity  of 
Mycalessus ;  at  the  feet  of  the  statue  of  the  Goddess  the 


252  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

people  would  place  offerings  of  flowering  fruits  which  ripen- 
ed in  autumn,  but  in  her  presence  they  would  remain  in 
bloom  the  whole  year  round ;  such  was  the  creative  power 
of  her  immediate  glance  that  the  flowers  never  withered.  A 
little  further  on  was  Harma  where  the  chariot  of  Amphiaraus, 
Hero  and  Seer,  was  swallowed  up  in  the  earth  by  the 
special  favor  of  Zeus ;  thence  he  gave  responses  far  over  this 
territory.  Yonder  above  on  Mount  Hypatus  just  before  us 
stood  a  temple  to  Zeus  Hypatus,  Zeus  the  Highest,  nearest 
there  to  his  own  ethereal  clearness;  shining  with  column 
and  entablature  it  crowned  the  summit  with  its  joyous 
wreath  of  marble.  Paasanias  the  traveler,  a  century  and  a 
half  subsequent  to  the  Christian  Era,  speaks  of  the  ruins  of 
the  towns  here ;  then  already  decay  had  set  in,  the  old  spirit 
had  fled.  But  the  Homeric  Hymn  to  Apollo  is  still  fresh 
with  the  young  life  of  the  localities  along  this  road. 

A  mounted  soldier  comes  along,  for  the  route  is  carefully 
guarded.  Let  not  the  traveler  leave  any  article  upon  the 
stone-pile  where  he  has  been  sitting,  the  cavalryman  will 
pick  it  up  and  carry  it  off  to  the  nearest  station,  where  it 
will  remain  till  the  owner  call  for  it.  An  accidental  wine- 
shop where  the  thirsty  son  of  Ares  reined  in  his  steed  for  a 
glass  of  recinato  saved  me  a  trip  back  to  Chalkis  for  my 
note-book,  which  I  had  left  for  a  few  minutes  on  one  of 
these  piles.  The  traveler  will  also  take  the  opportunity  to 
swallow  his  lunch  of  black  bread  and  cheese,  as  he  sits  there 
in  happy  mood  looking  up  at  the  hills  on  either  side  of  the 
way.  Native  pedestrians  he  will  meet  who  will  stop  and 
question  him ;  carriages  will  pass  with  tourists  from  Athens 
who  have  ventured  to  take  a  ride  as  far  as  Thebes,  and  who 
look  out  of  the  window  of  the  vehicle  at  him  with  some 


Aulis  to  Thebes  253 

anxiety,  lest  he  be  a  brigand ;  the  four  horse  mail  coach  will 
go  by,  the  driver  asking  the  lone  pedestrian  if  he  wishes  to 
ride.  No,  he  prefers  to  walk,  though  the  sun  is  getting  a 
little  hot,  for  it  is  already  somewhat  past  noon. 

There  is  no  hurry  then,  let  us  glance  around  at  our 
leisure.  Off  to  the  right  is  a  high  range  of  mountains  with 
its  white  tops  in  a  long  vanishing  row,  ranked  close  like  the 
teeth  of  a  shark's  jaw ;  it  is  Kithaeron.  Behind  us  are  the 
frosty  summits  of  Euboea;  especially  the  hoary  giant 
Basilicon  towers  aloft,  still  seeming  to  be  near  at  hand,  with 
top  glistening  in  the  rays  of  the  sun.  But  before  the  trav- 
eler rises  in  the  distance  a  new  mountain,  lofty,  snow- 
capped, which  he  will  watch  curiously;  notice  the  thick 
white  cloud  which  is  settling  upon  the  peak — so  thick  that  it 
looks  like  a  new  snow-capped  summit  piled  on  the  moun- 
tain till  it  rise  up  and  mingle  with  the  Heavens.  Some  in- 
visible Titan  is  there,  we  may  imagine,  heaping  Ossa  on 
Pelion  in  order  that  he  may  scale  Olympus,  the  home  of 
the  Gods.  Thither  we  are  going,  we  shall  see. 

Passing  up  the  Great  Road  a  short  distance  we  reach  a 
low  ridge  through  which  the  highway  runs ;  from  its  comb 
we  look  forth  in  front  and  behold  a  new  landscape,  indeed  a 
new  country.  The  Boeotian  plain  breaks  into  view  at  once, 
hedged  in  on  all  sides  by  mountains  ;  this  slight  ridge  is  the 
watershed.  As  we  pass  forward,  we  notice  that  form  so 
often  seen  in  Greece — an  amphitheater  made  by  nature ;  the 
hills  retire,  then  sweep  back  towards  the  road  in  the  shape  of 
a  half  moon,  while  the  road  draws  a  straight  line  from  tip  to 
tip  of  of  the  arc.  So  amphitheater  succeeds  to  amphi- 
theater ;  hills  rising  above  hills  make  the  seats  and  landing- 
places  ;  a  ghostly  multitude  of  faces  fill  them  from  the  plain 


254  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

to  the  clouds.  They  are  looking  at  the  solitary  wayfarer 
who  is  walking  leisurely  before  them  on  that  arc,  while  he 
occasionally  turns  his  face  toward  the  still  murmur  of  the 
unseen  throngs  on  the  hill-sides. 

But  what  a  change!  It  is  a  new  land,  a  new  world. 
Tbe  soil  becomes  rich  and  deep ;  it  varies  in  color  from  a 
light  red  to  a  dark  red,  with  a  loamy  fat-lc-oking  lustre. 
You  would  say,  the  very  ground  was  greasy,  charged  with 
animal  matter.  This  impression  is  intensified  by  the  enor- 
mous flocks  of  crows  and  buzzards  which  hover  over  the 
plain  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  or  drop  in  long  streaks 
down  to  the  earth.  They  seem  to  be  able  to  gorge  directly 
of  the  soil  which  lies  here  like  an  immense  carcass  spread 
over  the  low  tract  of  the  country.  The  feeling  is  that  the 
whole  land,  rank  in  its  own  decay,  is  about  to  spring  back 
into  vegetable  and  animal  life.  And  such  is  the  case :  veg- 
etables and  animals  are  everywhere  leaping,  as  it  were,  into 
being  over  the  wide  level  expanse.  Tall  grasses  now  fill 
the  lush  luxuriant  meadows  alternating  with  fields  of  grain ; 
cotton,  too,  is  one  of  the  products  of  this  rich  plain.  Num- 
berless herds  of  cattle,  sheep,  and  horses  spot  the  distance 
with  many  colors ;  flocks  of  goats  repose  on  the  more  re- 
mote slopes  in  sunny  patches.  The  air  is  filled  with  an 
incessant  tinkling  of  bells,  far  and  near,  faint  and  loud,  of 
little  sheep-bells  and  of  big  cow-bells — all  in  a  sweet  chime 
over  the  meadows  and  hills ;  thus  the  landscape  in  addition 
to  its  color  is  overflowing  with  a  mellow  idyllic  music ;  even 
the  sunbeams  fall  around  you  in  subtle  harmony  with  the 
tintinnabulation  of  the  bells. 

Through  such  strains  the  traveler  passes  along  the  high- 
way ;  the  image  of  Iphigenia  which  has  accompanied  him 


Aulis  to  Thebes.  255 

from  Aulis  and  filled  his  eyes  with  unaccustomed  tears,  now 
bids  him  farewell,  she  vanishes  over  the  mountains  to  her 
home.  For  she  is  an  Attic  figure,  the  creation  of  Attic 
tragedy,  she  stands  for  some  of  the  most  intense  struggles 
of  human  spirit.  But  here  in  this  plain  man  would  seem  to 
have  no  struggle,  no  yearning  which  whelms  him  into  con- 
flict ;  he  will  become  as  fat  as  the  soil  and  heavy  as  this 
dank  atmosphere  which  fills  the  valley  from  the  Copaic 
swamp.  Yet  let  us  not  be  too  fast  with  our  conclusions ; 
there  is  stiff  contradiction  here  too,  between  the  bare  hill 
and  the  rich  plain ;  these  will  grapple  in  strife  if  nought 
else. 

It  is  manifest  that  this  land  will  produce  a  different  class 
of  beings  from  Attica  which  we  have  just  left.  There  the 
soil  is  light  and  thin,  the  air  is  clear  and  genial,  the  climate 
dry  and  exhiliarating ;  the  people  will  have  a  tendency  to 
become  winged,  to  soar  and  to  sing.  But  here  Nature  is  fat 
and  heavy,  her  children  will  be  likely  to  receive  the  inheri- 
tance. The  old  reproach  "  Beotian  swine  "now  becomes 
the  pithy  statement  for  the  clime  and  the  man.  Still  human 
beings  will  not  sink  into  enervation  upon  this  spot,  for  the 
climate  is  far  more  severe  than  that  of  Attica  for  instance, 
nor  is  the  plain  so  large  that  an  enormous  mass  of  humanity 
can  settle  here  and  press  itself  down  by  its  own  weight,  as 
in  the  great  river  valleys  of  the  East.  This  rich  earth  will 
have  to  be  stoutly  defended  against  poor  and  hungry  neigh- 
bors dwelling  on  yonder  rocky  hills  ;  thus  there  will  have  to 
be  strength,' order,  military  organization,  if  the  inhabitants 
keep  their  lands  and  their  freedom.  Men  upon  this  soil  will 
do  two  things  at  least :  gormandize  and  fight ;  and  such  is 
their  historical  character.  Yet  in  the  background  hover 


256  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

deep  struggles  of  the  spiritual  kind ;  fearful  tragedies  will 
break  up  into  Theban  fable,  as  if  intimating  something 
which  lies  first  and  deepest  in  the  instinct  of  the  people. 

Thus  in  Greece  Nature  herself  takes  care  to  individualize 
her  territory  and  with  it  her  creatures.  She  cuts  it  up  and 
separates  its  parts  by  chains  of  mountains ;  then  by  means 
of  sea,  swamp  and  range  of  snowy  peaks  she  contrives  to 
give  to  each  portion  a  distinct  character.  This  Boeotia,  one 
often  repeats  to  himself,  is  a  different  world  from  Attica, 
though  distant  but  a  few  hours'  walk ;  yet  there  is  withal  a 
certain  Greek  unity  in  this  very  differentiation.  Copais 
lake  that  stretches  yonder,  furnishes  its  broad  surface  for 
moisture,  and  the  climate  becomes  damp  and  heavy;  the 
whole  plain  too  is  a  swampy  sediment  of  primeval  ages, 
shooting  into  rank  vegetation.  But  forget  not  the  other 
side  to  the  prosaic  one:  this  land  produced  more  and  a 
higher  mythical  lore  than  any  other  Hellenic  locality,  with 
the  possible  exception  of  Argos ;  it  produced  on  the  whole 
the  most  ideal  man  in  Greek  history — Epaminondas ;  it  pro- 
duced the  lightest-winged,  highest-soaring  lyric  poet  of 
either  ancient  or  modern  times — Pindar.  Of  them  indeed 
we  must  hear  again. 

The  sun  is  hot,  though  it  be  winter ;  the  pedestrian  trudg 
ing  along  the  hard-rolled  highway  will  become  thirsty.  Un- 
finished wells  here  and  there  at  the  side  of  the  road  indicate 
that  others  before  him  have  felt  the  same  need  of  a  fresh 
draught,  which,  he  hopes,  will  be  ready  for  those  who  are  to 
come  after  him ;  but  the  most  philanthropic  hope  will  not 
give  him  a  drink  of  water.  The  amphitheatres  furnish  good 
company,  for  their  stony  seats  are  filled  to  the  very  skies 
with  a  multitude  of  spirits,  looking  at  Time's  spectacle.  A 


Aulis  to  Tliebes.  257 

high  ridge  springs  up  suddenly  in  front  and  compels  the 
road  to  turn  aside — a  jagged  volcanic  product  breaking  up- 
ward in  a  thousand  quivering  struggles,  and  each  quiver 
chilled  forever  into  stone.  The  eager  traveler  will  leave  the 
highway  and  attempt  to  explore,  but  he  has  to  leap  from 
jag  to  jag,  and  his  peaceful  walk  is  thrown  into  convulsions 
like  the  ridge,  altogether  incompatible  with  classic  repose. 
He  soon  abandons  the  frenzied  rocks  and  returns  to  the 
road  with  joyful  glances,  for,  if  I  mistake  not,  he  begins  to 
see  something  of  Thebes  in  the  distance  lying  on  a  hill. 
But  further  yet,  far  beyond  Thebes,  is  that  lofty  snow- 
capped mountain  which  has  remained  in  our  vision  ever 
since  we  crossed  the  Boeotian  watershed ;  still  the  solid 
white  cloud  rests  on  the  summit,  reaching  up  into  the 
heavens ;  no  eye  can  tell  where  mountain  ends  and  cloud 
begins,  so  much  alike  do  they  seem.  Truly  the  earth  seems 
to  be  rising  there,  flying  upward  at  the  stars  with  white 
wings — what  can  be  the  name  of  the  mount?  I  suspect  it, 
still  I  dare  not  tell  it  now. 

But  this  thirst  is  a  little  troublesome  and  begins  to  touch 
the  Greek  mood.  Good  luck! — here  is  a  laborer,  and  he 
has  a  skin  filled  with  fresh  water  which  he  freely  offers  to 
the  wayferer.  A  great,  red-faced,  fat  man,  quite  distinct 
from  the  common  run  of  people  in  Greece,  he  seems  to  par- 
take of  the  nature  of  the  soil  which  he  is  tilling ;  sweaty 
and  puffing,  with  enormous  bulk  he  wields  the  grubbing- 
hoe ;  a  very  type  of  Boeotia,  you  will  think  being  reminded 
again  of  the  ancient  proverb  above  cited,  though  the 
thought  be  in  the  present  case  ungenerous.  But  let  us  not 
delay,  with  Thebes  getting  nearer. 

At  the  side  of  the  road  is  an  artificial  mound  which  has 


258  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

been  recently  excavated;  excellent  masonry  is  brought  to 
view,  with  stone  carefully  cut ;  some  tomb  or  trophy  is  the 
ready  conjecture,  and  anciently  it  must  have  spoken  of  the 
Great  Deed  or  of  the  Great  Man  to  the  traveler  as  he 
approached  the  city,  filling  his  heart  with  the  desire  of  im- 
itation, or  perchance  with  worship.  Thus  with  the  view  of 
Thebes  he  would  get  the  view  of  one  of  its  Heroes.  Not 
far  from  it  is  a  very  different  object  though  intended  for 
worship  also — a  Christian  shrine ;  in  a  stone  frame  is  set  a 
rude  picture  of  the  Virgin  and  Child,  before  which  the 
Greek  of  to-day  crosses  himself  and  repeats  a  prayer.  1 
too  stop  and  look  at  it  thoughtfully ;  it  is  well  enough  just 
upon  this  spot  to  remind  the  weary  pedestrian  that  there  is 
providence  over  him,  that  he  must  also  have  faith — for  is 
not  his  whole  journey  based  upon  the  belief  that  in  the  next 
village  provision  has  been  made  for  him,  of  which  he  now 
knows  nothing?  Otherwise  I  would  not  go  to  Thebes 
yonder,  Thebes  wonld  be  death — nothingness ;  as  it  is,  not 
only  will  my  body  find  food  and  shelter  there,  but  I  feel 
certain  of  receiving  some  spiritual  nourishment. 

But  it  is  strange  how  unnatural  that  Virgin  appears  upon 
Greek  soil ;  she  seems  not  yet  at  home  after  this  long,  long 
millennial  residence.  Somehow  or  other  she  still  looks  like  a 
foreigner;  nay,  she  has  almost  a  destructive  appearance 
here,  kindly  and  good  though  she  be  elsewhere ;  the  Greek 
when  he  begins  to  worship  her,  sinks  to  little  or  nothing  in 
comparison  to  what  he  once  was  with  other  divinities  in  his 
heart;  if  she  be  not  some  avenging  deity,  destroying  her 
own  worshipers,  at  least  she  has  been  unable  to  lift  them 
up  into  their  ancient  worth.  That  mule-driver  just  in  ad- 
vance of  us  who  leaps  down  from  his  seat  and  goes  through 


Aulis  to  Thebes.  259 

with  his  devotions  before  her  image,  is  no  unfair  sample  of 
her  products ;  he  represents  that  to  which  she  has  reduced 
the  Greek  from  the  ancient  breed  of  men  who  were  once 
born  upon  this  soil.  Or  turn  about  the  statement,  if  you 
please,  and  say:  the  Greek  having  lost  his  freedom,  his 
faith,  and  himself,  received  a  new  divinity  and  sank  into 
this  new  worship.  Both  propositions  are,  however,  in  their 
essence  the  same. 

Here  comes  another  specimen  of  a  different  kind;  I  take 
him  to  be  a  Boeotian  country  gentleman.  Mounted  on  a 
fine  steed  which  steps  proudly  along  the  highway,  he  ap- 
proaches, in  big  cavalier  boots,  with  bright  scarlet  fez  lying 
slouched  upon  the  top  of  his  head,  while  a  long  very  white 
overcoat  shaggy  with  large  woolly  flocks  gives  him  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  white  bear — fat,  haughty,  carnivorous ;  bar- 
baric ornaments  of  various  kinds  are  scattered  over  his 
horse  and  his  person.  So  too  the  old  Theban  was  repioach- 
ed  with  haughtiness  as  well  as  with  gluttony ;  one  will  fancy 
he  sees  some  of  these  traits  still  cleaving  to  the  soil. 

After  some  minutes  another  figure  appears  in  the  road, 
taking  a  walk  out  of  Thebes  which  is  now  not  far  off.  It  is 
a  Papas  or  priest  strolling  at  his  leisure  outside  of  the  town 
gates ;  his  long  black  gown  seems  to  move  through  the 
clear  air  almost  without  showing  any  bend  in  his  knees  as 
he  steps ;  a  man  of  quiet  contemplation,  one  would  think 
judging  by  his  face.  I  address  him,  and  he  responds  in  a 
*  friendly  sweet  voice ;  he  points  out  to  me  the  various  places 
seen  in  the  landscape  and  tells  their  names :  in  this  direc- 
tion is  Kokla,  ancient  Plataea,  there  is  Orchomenus,  now 
Scripu.  But  what  mountain  is  that  yonder,  with  the  clouds 
and  sunbeams  piled  upon  its  summit  to  the  very  skies? 

- 


260  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

Parnassus,  he  replied,  and  under  it  is  Delphi.  He  con- 
tinued his  walk,  while  I  stepped  quickly  forward  looking  at 
Parnassus.  No  wonder  that  the  mountain  with  its  broad- 
expanded,  gold-bordered  cloud-wings  seeks  to  lift  itself 
into  ethereal  spaces,  being  upheld  by  a  Delphic  foundation 
— Poesy  sustained  by  Prophecy.  It  is  now  clear  as  day- 
light that  the  destination  of  this  journey  is  not  Thebes ; 
yonder  is  the  beacon  held  aloft  in  the  heavens. 

But  we  must  not  fly  off  yet,  we  are  not  yet  even  in 
Thebes,  though  the  suburbs  begin  to  appear.  We  shall 
enter  by  the  Proetid  Gate,  from  the  East ;  can  we  call  up 
the  scene  as  it  looked  to  the  eye  of  the  ancient  traveler  ap- 
proaching the  city  in  this  direction  ?  Along  the  street  over 
which  we  are  now  passing  were  situated  in  antiquity  the 
tombs  and  monuments  of  Heroes  and  Great  Men.  Down 
the  road  they  stretched  for  two  miles ;  the  stranger  was  re- 
minded, as  he  approached  the  city,  of  its  illustrious 
characters,  both  historical  and  legendary.  He  could  see  in 
the  statue,  in  the  inscription,  in  the  monument  what  men 
Thebes  had  produced,  and  whom  she  still  held  in  remem- 
brance. Here  was  her  fable,  her  history,  her  own  deepest 
character,  spread  out  before  the  eyes  of  the  stranger  who 
could  read  them  on  entering  her  walls.  The  best  introduc- 
tion to  her  life  lay  inscribed  there ;  still  fragments  of  it  we 
may  read  to-day,  using  the  vision  of  the  ancient  tourist. 

For  in  the  sun  of  the  quiet  afternoon  the  marble  monu- 
ments begin  to  rise  and  glisten ;  we  may  pass  through  them 
built  on  either  hand,  and  scan  them  thoughtfully.  First  was 
the  tomb  of  the  seer,  old  Tiresias,  more  than  fifteen  stades 
from  the  city.  The  great  prophet  must  stand  at  the  very 
opening,  significantly  hinting  what  is  to  be ;  for  all  which 


Aulis  to  Thebes.  261 

follows  is  really  his  prophecy.     For  he  knew  and  foretold 
what  lay  in  the  germ  of  Thebes  and  of  her  Heroes ;  ad- 
vance  now  and  see  it  unfolded  in  the  monuments  which 
follow,  and  in  the  city  itself.     But  we  have  already  left  the 
place  of  Teresias  rapidly  behind,  and  we  come  to  another 
monument  inscribed:    Tomb   of  Hector.     What   does   this 
mean  ?    And  by  the  oracle  the  children  of  Cadmus  are  com- 
manded to  reverence  the  Asiatic  hero  after  transferring  his 
bones  from  Asia.     No  wonder  that  Thebes  did  not  furnish 
any  contingent  for  the  Trojan  war.     It  is  an  indication  of 
the  foreign  element  which  lies  both  in  Theban  legend  and  in 
Theban   history ;  she  has  Asiatic  preferences  which  bring 
her  into  fierce  conflict  with  the  other  Greeks ;  she  is  born  to 
be  a  city  of  struggle.     On  the  whole  this  is  the  most  signifi- 
cant fact  pertaining  to  Thebes :  she  worshipped  the  Hero  of 
Asia,  the  enemy  of  the  Greek  Hero  Achilles ;  manifestly 
she  is  in  shrill  dissonance  with  the  rest  of  the  Greek  world. 
Here  too  is  another  and  even  deeper  sign  of  that  disson- 
ance :   Tomb  of  Melanippus.    This  is  the  name  of  a  Theban 
Hero  who  fell  during  the  siege  of  his  city  by  the  Argives, 
after  he  had  slain  the  great  Argive  chieftain  Tydeus,  whose 
monument  of  rude  stones  is  also  here  near  by.     Thus  the 
two  enemies  still  glare  on  each  other  from  their  tombs,  as 
they   did  in   life,    representing   the   Theban   conflict    with 
Greece ;  the  two  cities  with  their  Heroes  stand  for  opposite 
tendencies  of  the  Greek  world,  and  Argos  as  the  leading 
Hellenic  power  of  that  age  seeks  to  bring  harmony  out  of 
this  Theban  discord  with  Hellenism,  which  she  succeeds  in 
at  last  by  wiping  Thebes  out  of  existence.     But  it  is  after 
all  the  strife  of  two  Greek  states,  the  strife  of  brothers — 
and  here  they  are,  Eteocles  and  Polynices,  the  two  brothers 


262  A  Walk  in  Bellas. 

who  perish,  each  by  the  other's  hand.  Thus  the  Argives 
were  destroyed  once,  and  Thebes  was  destroyed  once  in 
that  bitter  conflict.  The  brothers  have  a  common  altar  here 
upon  which  offerings  are  laid ;  but  behold  the  fire  of  the 
sacrifice,  it  separates  into  two  hostile  tongues  of  flame 
which  will  not  mingle.  Brothers  they  are  and  must  remain 
together,  though  without  hope  of  reconciliation,  enemies 
still  in  the  grave.  Thus  Theban  struggle  is  pushed  to  its 
last  intensity  in  the  direst  domestic  tragedy ;  from  the  first 
Asiatic  dissonance,  through  Greek  civil  war  it  has  passed  to 
fratricide.  Then  still  further,  to  unwitting  parricide,  for 
we  have  now  reached  the  fountain  of  Oedipus,  parent  of 
those  two  brothers ;  in  its  waters  he  washed  off  the  blood- 
stains of  his  own  father  after  murdering  him ;  still  the 
stream  runs  red,  to  the  sympathetic  eye. 

But  we  have  already  crossed  the  Ismenian  stream,  now 
quite  dry  at  this  point,  and  we  have  arrived  at  the  Proetid 
Gate.  Such  are  the  monuments  which  the  traveler  an- 
ciently beheld  here  in  reality,  but  now  we  must  behold  them 
in  image,  unfolding  gradually  a  deep  tragic  scission  to  the 
very  heart  of  the  city,  and  ending  in  bloody  catastrophe. 
This  is  our  introduction  to  Thebes  as  we  pass  up  the  Chal- 
kidian  road — a  true  introduction  to  her  legend,  to  her  his- 
tory, to  her  character,  written  with  her  own  hand  and 
placed  here  before  the  eyes  of  all  who  are  able  to  read  her 
monuments.  It  is  an  honest  writing,  I  should  say,  instinct- 
ively revealing  to  the  traveler  what  she  is  within,  what  she 
must  be  in  the  future,  for  these  are  the  records  of  her  inner- 
most being.  Unconscious  is  the  expression  of  her  life  here, 
and  therefore  sincere ;  like  a  prologue  to  some  fearful 


Aulis  to  Tliebes.  263 

tragedy  it  has  been  uttered  in  our  presence,  and  with  pre- 
monitions upon  us  we  enter  the  gate  of  the  city. 


TALK  TENTH. 


Thebes  and  Plataea. 

Slowly  the  pedestrian  winds  up  the  hill  into  Thebes. 
After  he  has  passed  through  a  small  modern  suburb  and  en- 
tered the  town  on  the  declivity,  he  soon  reaches  the  central 
place  of  business,  which  is  indicated  by  wagons  loaded  with 
cotton,  by  a  stage-coach  and  by  numerous  wineshops.  It 
is  not  yet  evening,  there  is  tune  for  a  preliminary  saunter 
through  the  town.  Its  whole  activity  is  confined  to  one  broad 
street,  along  which  the  shops  and  stores  are  ranged  side  by 
side ;  most  of  the  houses  have  but  one  story  with  low 
roofs  projecting  in  front  over  the  unpaved  sidewalk.  The 
cobbler  sits  in  the  open  air,  with  old  shoes  lying  around  him 
in  winrows ;  the  blacksmith,  the  tinner,  the  gunsmith  are 
hammering  away  in  an  anvil  chorus  of  rattling  iron ;  village 
industries  appear  to  be  thriving.  The  dwellings  may  be  pro- 
nounced on  the  whole  substantial ;  a  few  may  even  lay  claim 
to  some  elegance,  if  the  standard  be  not  placed  too  high. 

.Still  the  town  makes  the  impression  of  undue  eating  and 
drinking,  which  was  the  reproach  cast  upon  it  in  antiquity. . 


Thebes  and  Plataea.  265 

The  fertile  plain  gathers  and  concentrates  itself  upon  this 
hill  where  it  finds  its  last  expression  in  the  character  of 
man.  It  pi'oduces  not  the  refined  epicureanism  of  the  vol- 
uptuary but  the  gross  pleasures  of  the  gormandizer.  The 
wineshops  are  all  open  and  ablaze  with  activity ;  in  a  pub- 
lic garden  one  can  see  a  throng  of  people  sitting  and  sipping 
their  recinato  with  loud  buzz  of  talk  and  hot  political  dis- 
cussion, for  the  election  of  Demarch  or  Mayor  is  approach- 
ing. On  the  street  there  is  in  general  a  well-fed  appearance 
of  humanity,  verging  toward  obesity  in  those  who  have 
battened  on  this  moor.  Kitchens  abound  just  on  the  side- 
walk; cookery,  instead  of  taking  place  in  some  obscure 
corner  to  the  rear  of  house,  hiding  itself  out  of  sight  for 
shame,  shows  itself,  brazen-faced,  to  the  very  eyes  of  the 
customer,  and  the  aroma  of  his  dinner  first  ascends  to  his 
nostrils.  Pots  are  arranged,  bubbling  and  steaming,  under 
charcoal  fires  in  the  front  window  of  the  public  eating- 
houses  ;  stewed  meat  and  vegetables  are  handed  out  to  the 
passer  on  the  sidewalk,  or  he  may  take  a  seat  within  at  a 
riide«table.  These  customs  are  not  peculiar  to  Thebes,  we 
saw  them  at  Chalkis  and  shall  see  them  everywhere  on 
Greek  soil ;  but  they  seem  intensified  here.  Perhaps  I  ob- 
serve only  the  old  in  the  new ;  still  that  is  just  the  object  of 
my  trip  and  yours.  In  accordance  with  our  duty  as  honest 
travelers  let  us  fall  in  with  the  customs  of  the  place  and 
order  a  stew  of  lamb  and  potatoes. 

A  short  walk  let  us  then  take  up  the  street  to  the  walls, 
whence  we  can  overlook  the  country.  The  wonderful  situa- 
tion is  at  once  revealed ;  this  is  just  the  spot  for  the  city. 
The  hill  rises  up  from  the  plain,  and  is  surrounded  by  a 
deep  natural  trench  on  all  sides  except  where  at  one  narrow 


266  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

interval  it  slopes  off  gradually  into  the  valley,  as  if  to 
stretch  out  there  a  friendly  hand.  Imagine  a  huge  saucer 
with  a  line  of  hills  for  its  rim ;  such  is  the  total  landscape 
before  us.  Then  imagine  a  protuberance  in  the  bottom  of  the 
saucer  somewhat  to  one  side ;  upon  this  protuberance 
almost  as  high  as  the  surrounding  rim  of  hills  Thebes  is 
built.  It  is  an  acropolis  raised  by  Nature,  and  fitted  for 
commanding  the  plain  far  and  wide ;  the  people  who  dwell 
here  must  be  the  rulers  of  those  who  dwell  below  them  and 
around  them,  if  they  be  true  to  their  situation.  The  head- 
ship of  Thebes  is  written  upon  this  natural  elevation,  one 
can  still  read  the  decree  ineffaceable  by  time.  Therefore 
this  is  the  holy  hill,  the  Cadmeia,  the  special  gift  of  the  God 
who  is  here  worshiped  by  his  people  in  his  own  temple  built 
upon  its  summit.  For  did  not  ancient  Cadmus,  coming  from 
abroad,  follow  the  indication  of  the  Delphic  oracle  and  settle 
here  where  the  sacred  cow  lay  down  ?  It  is  indeed  a  devoted 
spot,  the  strength  and  protection  of  the  people,  who  with 
sacrifice  will  long  appreciate  the  gift.  Into  the  plain  it 
slopes  by  one  narrow  passage,  easy  to  descend,  harA  to 
ascend  against  resistance.  Such  is  the  donation  of  divinity, 
one  can  still  connect  his  presence  with  the  hill. 

Another  blessing  has  the  God  granted  to  this  favored 
situation :  on  each  side  of  the  hill  run  two  streams  of  water 
from  large  pure  fountains.  So  our  city  will  be  called  by  the 
poets  two-rivered ;  Dirke  and  Ismenus  are  the  names.  Just 
now  we  are  standing  on  the  site  of  the  old  temple  to  the 
Ismenian  Apollo,  titled  from  the  stream  flowing  at  his  feet ; 
deservedly  will  he  be  regarded  as  the  chief  deity  of  the  city 
on  account  of  his  two  presents,  the  hill  and  the  streams ; 
they  indeed  make  up  its  special  characteristic.  These  noble 


TJiebes  and  Plataea.  2G7 

benefactions  came  from  the  God  to  his  people ;  if  not  from 
him,  whence  did  they  come?  So  thinks  the  pious  Theban, 
so  we  may  think  with  him,  forgetting  our  geology,  which, 
after  all,  only  removes  the  difficulty  one  or  two  steps  further 
back. 

But  the  long  shadows  over  the  Dirkean  runnels  admonish 
us  that  we  are  not  in  that  antique  world  where  the  sun  is 
always  shining;  turn  about  then,  and  go  back  to  modern 
Thebes.  I  have  noticed  one  man  persistently  following  me 
through  the  streets,  and  disturbing  my  reveries.  Twice 
already  I  have  shaken  him  off,  but  the  third  time  I  send  him 
away  with  reproaches,  even  with  a  firmer  grasp  of  my  staff. 
He  now  leaves  me  to  myself ;  but  night  has  already  drawn  a 
sombre  curtain  over  the  plain,  and  distant  Parnassus,  other- 
wise so  white  and  slu'ning,  has  been  darkened  into  a  Creole 
beauty.  Alas !  I  must  now  take  leave  of  the  ancient  com- 
pany and  seek  shelter  and  food,  for  I  am  not  yet  ready  to 
dissolve  wholly  my  connection  with  the  present.  I  go  to  a 
kind  of  hostelry  and  look  in ;  there  is  the  landlord,  the  very 
man  whom  I  had  so  unceremoniously  driven  off.  I  felt 
ashamed  to  ask  him  now  for  what  he  previously  had  been 
trying  to  thrust  upon  me ;  a  little  touch  of  Nemesis  it  is  for 
my  gruffuess.  But  I  shall  not  stay  there,  I  walk  up  and 
down  seeking  another  inn ;  this  is  the  only  one  in  town,  I 
am  told  everywhere.  So  I  have  to  return,  putting  on  my 
most  friendly  look,  and  not  forgetting  to  rattle  some  silver 
drachmas  conveniently  in  my  hand.  My  amiability  was 
irresistible,  of  perchance  my  drachmas,  falling  into  his 
Greek  eye.  I  apologized  gently ;  I  told  him  that  I  thought 
he  was  so  and  so,  whereas  he  was  not,  but  so  and  so — that 
is,  a  gentleman ;  let  the  end  be  told  at  once,  supper  and 


268  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

lodging.  But  such  is  the  first  penalty  which  Nemesis  lays 
upon  the  traveler  for  being  grouty  in  Greece ;  beware  of  the 
second,  it  may  be  more  severe. 

Thereupon  I  retire  in  good  humor,  nor  did  I  forget  to 
look  back  at  this  curious  trip,  as  I  lay  upon  my  couch ; 
more  than  a  week,  nine  days  to-morrow  morning,  have  I 
been  on  the  way  from  Athens.  A  fragment  of  life  not  un- 
eventful to  me,  full  of  real  sights  and  classic  visions, 
making  many  shapes  hitherto  dim  and  dreamy  actual  as 
life,  yet  opening  many  other  glimpses  into  things  uncertain ; 
but  whatever  else  may  be  said  of  it,  a  happy  fragment  it  has 
been,  and  thus  a  clear  gain  wrenched  from  the  clutches  of 
old  Time.  Yet  the  reverse  side  of  the  picture  must  be 
given :  I  did  not  think,  and  I  can  now  scarcely  believe  that 
such  a  short  period  would  produce  ten  long  talks  like  these 
to  which  you  have  been  listening ;  yes,  ten,  more  than  one 
for  each  day.  It  is  startling,  I  am  frightened  at  my  own 
possibilities.  What  if  every  day  of  my  life  should  result  in 
a  chapter  such  as  this !  What  a  Niagara  of  speech  would 
pour  out  of  me !  Nay,  further,  what  if  every  person  would 
produce  an  amount  equal  to  mine  every  day,  as  is  his  per- 
fect right !  Think  of  every  human  being  turned  to  a  dark 
cataract  of  printed  books  with  endless  deafening  roar! 
Such  is  to  be,  I  predict,  the  second  deluge  overwhelming 
the  world  for  its  sins  ;  many  are  now  the  signs  thereof  and 
this  is  one.  My  guilty  participation  I  cannot  deny  to  you, 
but  I  may  allege  a  single  extenuating  circumstance:  not 
with  these  nine  days  only  have  I  seen,  but  with  all  my  days 
lying  back  of  them  and  preparing  for  them ;  so  too  it  is  not 
the  nine  days  alone  which  are  speaking  now,  but  my  whole 
life  finding  utterance  in  them  at  this  moment. 


Thebes  and  Plataea.  269 

But  another  more  harmonious  note  will  soon  possess  the 
drowsy  ear  in  passing  to  dreamland  ;  faint  snatches  of  music 
will  already  have  hummed  through  the  head  like  a  distant 
strain,  and  then  have  died  away  at  any  attempt  to  catch 
them  distinctly.  Aeolian  fragments  you  will  think  them 
coming  down  from  ancient  Pindar  who  once  sang  here ;  still 
they  seem  to  be  wandering  through  the  air  on  which  they 
were  once  hymned.  Fair  choruses  begin  to  sport  round  the 
sacred  hill  of  Thebes,  to  whose  rhythm  all  her  legend  and 
history  fall  into  soft  attunement.  To  some  melodious  line 
and  more  melodious  image  of  the  bard  you  will  pass  into 
slumber,  when  you  will  listen  all  night  to  the  songs  of  the 
festival  and  behold  the  graceful  youths  stepping  lightly  in 
the  dance.  Early  by  a  dim  echo  you  will  be  roused — by  a 
dim  echo  of  voices  which  are  singing  of  the  morning  sun  as 
it  rises  over  the  Dirkeian  streams.  Get  up  quickly;  that 
too  we  must  witness  in  all  its  effulgence  casting  its  rays 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  musical  Nymph.  Therefore  this 
morning  let  us  hasten  to  the  Northern  side  of  the  city  where 
it  is  married  to  the  plain,  and  there  descend.  We  shall  pass 
a  high  tower  supposed  to  be  Byzantine,  we  shall  go  by  the 
public  threshing  floor,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  reach  fair- 
flowing  Dirke,  holy  water. 

But  as  we  move  through  this  locality  led  by  our  ancient 
guide  Pausanias,  another  form  springs  up,  a  woman,  with 
heroic  features,  but  with  a  fiercely  discordant  note  in  her 
soul.  Here  is  then  the  Syrma  or  Place  of  the  Dragging,  for 
it  was  here  tnat  Antigone  dragged  her  dead  brother  to  the 
funeral  pile  in  defiance  of  the  command  of  the  Bang.  It  is 
wonderful  how  much  more  real  the  stoiy  of  Antigone  is  than 
any  historical  event  which  has  happened  upon  this  spot,  and 


270  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

how  much  more  vivid  the  heroic  woman  stands  out  than  any 
historic  personage.  Her  conflict  is  of  to-day  and  will 
remain  forever  an  expression  for  man  of  what  is  eternal 
within  him ;  thus  must  true  poetry  be  always  above  history 
tied  down  to  Time. 

This,  then,  was  in  part  the  scene  of  that  famous  Oedipus 
legend — Oedipus  who  slew  his  father  and  married  his 
mother,  unwittingly.  Such  was  his  profound  ignorance  that 
he  knew  not  father  or  mother ;  yet  just  he  was  the  surpass- 
ing wise  man  of  the  Thebans,  the  man  who  had  guessed 
Sphinx  riddle,  and  to  whom  the  mysteiy  of  Egypt  and  of 
the  Orient  was  no  longer  a  mystery.  But  another  and 
deeper  riddle  comes  up  to  him  for  solution,  far  deeper  than 
the  Egyptian  one,  and  threatening  to  destroy  not  only  him 
but  the  whole  Greek  world.  It  is  one  phase  of  the  infinite 
riddle  between  the  subjective  and  the  objective,  as  the  phil- 
osophers speak ;  the  bottomless  chasm  between  what  is  the 
/  am  and  what  the  world  is  yawns  for  Oedipus,  and  he  falls 
in,  not  to  be  rescued  by  any  hand  of  that  age.  Man  violates 
the  sacredest  prescriptions  of  his  own  time  and  indeed  of  his 
own  nature,  yet  he  does  so  unknowingly ;  alas,  what  is  to  be 
done  with  him,  what  is  he  to  do  with  himself?  It  is  verita- 
bly a  riddle,  or  better,  it  is  a  conflict  between  the  profound- 
est  spiritual  principles,  between  the  inner  and  outer  Reason, 
between  the  law  of  the  man  and  the  law  of  the  institution. 
In  that  disruption  the  human  being  is  torn  to  pieces,  be- 
comes in  the  deepest  sense  a  tragic  character.  Oedipus  does 
the  wrong,  unwittingly  it  is  true ;  nevertheless  the  wrong 
exists  in  the  world,  the  great  violation  remains  the  same,  he 
must  be  punished — must  punish  himself.  Yet  he  was  inno- 
cent as  the  inner  man,  he  had  no  intent  corresponding  to  the 


Thebes  and  Plataea.  271 

deed.  But  he,  the  wise  man,  the  guesser  of  riddles,  ought 
not  to  be  entrapped  in  a  riddle.  Yet  he  was  entrapped  and 
could  not  help  himself — and  so  on  to  infinity  must  the 
wrenching  contradiction  be  continued  at  Thebes ;  thus  the 
poor  old  man,  with  soul  torn  to  very  tatters,  has  to  flee,  he 
leaves  his  own  city  and  passes  down  the  road  toward 
Athens,  led  by  his  daughter,  having  plucked  out  his 
physical  eye  when  he  could  not  see  with  his  spiritual  eye. 
Abandoning  Thebes  full  of  unreconcileable  struggle  he  will 
find  at  Athens  atonement  for  his  guilt  and  a  solution  for  his 
new  riddle — whereof  nothing  at  present. 

Thus  has  the  Athenian  poet  shown  the  Theban  Oedipus, 
and  has  touched  a  theme  which  must  come  home  to  us  all. 

• 

This  existence  of  ours  lies  between  two  riddles,  the  one  of 
which  we  may  guess,  the  other  not.  Every  human  being 
now  treading  the  earth,  however  great,  however  little  he 
may  be,  hovers  between  the  known  and  the  unknown  like 
Oedipus.  With  that  unknown  he  grapples  for  dear  life, 
conquers  much  of  it  perhaps  ;  but  wrestling  still  with  it,  he 
is  at  last  hurled  into  his  grave.  With  the  Greek  poet  some 
of  us  may  assert  that  reconciliation  is  to  be  found  here 
before  death,  but  the  most  of  our  race  seem  to  expect  it 
only  after  death  in  a  soul-renovating  paradise. 

A  daughter,  a  truly  spiritual  daughter  of  Oedipus  is  Anti- 
gone who  also  must  be  located  upon  this  spot  where  we  are 
standing.  One  problem  she  too  has  solved — it  is  the  duty 
of  performing  the  last  funeral  rites  for  her  outcast  brother. 
Frantic  she  -comes,  with  maniacal  hair  streaming  in  the 
wind,  frenzied  with  resolution ;  upon  this  spot  she  drags  the 
corpse  of  her  brother,  called  ever  afterwards  the  Syrma,  or 
the  Place  of  the  Dragging.  Then  upon  the  funeral  pile  she 


272  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

places  her  dead  brother,  and  performs  the  sacred  ceremony ; 
a  sisterly  deed  full  of  the  deepest  devotion  and  fidelity,  and 
to  the  heroine  the  whole  world  shouts  approbation.  This 
problem  then  she  has  solved  to  her  and  our  satisfaction ; 
but  let  us  see — what  is  this  other  mighty  contention  spring- 
ing into  view  suddenly?  A  new  conflict  arises,  in  the  very 
act  of  duty  she  has  violated  duty  and  is  destroyed  ;  a  power 
rushes  in  and  sweeps  her  off,  it  is  the  authority  which  she 
has  assailed.  So  the  one  riddle  she  solves,  the  other  solves 
her,  not  without  tears  and  perhaps  execrations  from  us; 
still  the  power  makes  away  with  her,  and  most  effectually 
too.  Thus  the  daughter  of  Oedipus  has  her  soluble  and  in- 
soluble riddle ;  she  who  can  master  one  problem  to  the 
admiration  of  all  ages,  is  ground  to  death  by  the  second 
problem. 

Such  is  the  Theban  image  in  legend,  full  of  riddling  dis- 
cord; nor  must  we  forget  the  two  sieges  of  Thebes  in 
legendary  times ;  in  reality,  however,  two  phases  of  one 
siege  which  ends  in  the  capture  of  the  city.  Let  us  glance 
at  the  Thebau  image  also  therein  reflected,  and  try  to  reach 
its  true  purport.  It  has  already  been  stated  that  Thebes 
and  the  Cadmeia  sprang  from  a  foreign  element,  and  that 
they  seem  never  to  have  lost  a  foreign  sympathy.  This  hos- 
tile influence  in  the  heart  of  Greece  must  be  overcome  in 
order  to  unify  the  Hellenic  people  within ;  thus  they  will  be 
ready  for  the  great  external  conflict  with  Troy,  which,  it  is 
clear,  is  soon  to  be.  The  siege  of  Thebes,  then,  is  an  inner 
adumbration  of  the  siege  of  Troy,  or  perchance  a  prepara- 
tion for  the  same,  since  Troy  lay  outside  of  Greece  which  has 
first  to  purge  itself  of  its  own  Asiatic  element  before  going 
to  Asia  itself.  Some  such  hint  lies  in  the  legend  for  the  true 


Thebes  and  Plataea.  273 

believer,  and  such  is  the  relation  between  the  two  famous 
sieges,  the  Theban  and  the  Trojan,  the  internal  one  and  the 
external  one ;  both,  too  were  essentially  conflicts  with  the 
Orient.  Also  the  Argives  who  were  among  the  chief  leaders 
in  the  Trojan  Expedition  were  those  who  subjected  the 
foreign  influence  at  Thebes ;  or,  to  state  the  matter  other- 
wise, they  put  down  the  contradiction,  the  sharp  dissonance 
with  the  Greek  world  in  the  latter  city.  This  dissonance 
during  the  siege  of  Thebes  culminates  in  the  combat  be- 
tween Eteocles  and  Polynices,  brother  against  brother,  both 
fateful  sons  of  Oedipus,  victor  and  victim  of  the  riddle. 
But  in  their  case  the  riddle  annihilates  itself,  the  conflict 
ends  in  the  mutual  destruction  of  the  colliding  sides.  Thus 
Greece  frees  itself  for  a  time  of  this  riddling  discordant 
Thebes,  and  is  united  for  the  great  foreign  expedition,  in 
the  catalogue  of  whose  participants  the  Theban  name  does 
not  and  ought  not  to  appear. 

Everywhere  in  the  legendary  epoch  of  Thebes  the  foreign 
element  comes  to  the  surface ;  it  is  her  great  unsolved  con- 
tradiction which  brings  her  into  conflict  with  Greece,  with 
herself,  which  conflict  is  imaged  so  vividly  in  her  tragic- 
characters.  The  Hellenic  people  cannot  endure  with  such 
deep  dissonance  in  their  very  heart,  it  must  be  got  rid  of 
even  by  violence.  Justly  then  the  name  of  Thebes  is  not 
set  down  in  the  Iliad,  being  stricken  by  the  bard  from  the 
grand  muster-roll  of  the  Greeks  against  Troy,  which  was  the 
pride  of  so  many  small  Hellenic  communities.  The  great 
mythical  expedition  against  the  Asiatic  is  no  part  of  her 
glory ;  she  herself  was  the  Asiatic  in  Greece  who  had  first  to 
be  put  down ;  still  she  remained  Trojan  in  sympathy,  for 


274  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

did  we  not  see  the  tomb  of  Hector  outside  of  the  Proetid 
gate  among  her  heroes  ? 

Such  is  the  legend  which  some  may  be  inclined  to  pass 
over  as  a  thing  unreal.  But  in  that  second  great  muster- 
roll  against  the  Asiatic — the  muster-roll  called  before  the 
battle  of  Plataea  just  over  the  comb  of  3ronder  hill  Teumes- 
sus,  where  was  Thebes?  Alas,  more  than  missing;  worse 
than  stricken  from  the  list  of  patriotic  combatants  is  her 
name ;  the  historian  now  comes  forward  and  points  her  out 
standing  enranked  with  the  Asiatic  against  the  Greek,  and 
fighting  desperately  for  the  domination  of  the  Orient. 
Again  she  plays  the  foreigner  on  Greek  soil,  and  shows  her- 
self in  history  as  well  as  in  legend  to  be  a  traitor  to  Greek 
civilization.  So  true  is  the  legendary  as  well  as  the  his- 
torical character  of  the  city;  both  are  alike,  being  two 
different  reflections  of  one  and  the  same  object.  She  lives 
over  in  history  what  she  had  sung  of  in  legend ;  she  can 
only  make  real  what  poesy  had  presented  as  ideal.  History 
then  can  simply  act  the  fable  over  again,  with  much  addi- 
tional noise  and  confusion  perhaps;  it  is  the  second  yet 
more  turbid  fountain,  having  its  source  in  the  first  clear 
one ;  yet  both  will  mirror  the  same  face. 

Thus  we  pass  through  the  Syrma,  seeking  to  make  its 
dust  give  up  the  ancient  shapes  that  lie  here,  and  to  animate 
them  anew  with  their  innermost  spirit.  It  is  a  spot  of  tragic 
conflict,  of  terrific  dissonance,  which  to  this  day  jars 
fiercely  yet  sympathetically  in  the  breast.  But  of  a  sudden 
the  sounds  change,  we  come  to  the  banks  of  the  Dirkean 
stream,  over  which  hover  untold  melodies,  swelling  up  to 
the  heavens.  Whence  can  arise  such  a  sudden  transforma- 
tion of  echoes?  All  the  daughters  of  Mnemosyne  are  now 


Thebes  and  Plataea.  275 

singing  in  unison  their  strains  over  Dirke,  rearing  a  wall  of 
music  against  the  strifeful  spot  of  the  Dragging.  Through 
that  melodious  wall  over  the  brook  let  us  leap  at  once,  we 
have  entered  another  world,  the  tragic  discord  of  the  Syrma 
has  been  cut  off  and  left  far  behind,  and  man  has  become  a 
most  harmonious  being  who  dwells  forever  amid  the  tuneful 
spheres ;  we  have  entered  the  house  of  Pindar. 

Upon  this  spot  it  stood  according  to  our  ancient  guide ; 
here  the  poet  when  he  rose  at  morn  saw  the  first  beams  of 
Helius  play  over  the  Dirkean  waters.  The  material  house 
has  indeed  disappeared,  but  that  other  house  built  by  Pin- 
dar stands  visible,  nay  audible  to-day  and  forever.  For  it 
is  a  musical  house  still,  though  partly  in  ruins ;  the  most 
happy  musical  temple  ever  erected  out  of  the  lofty  hymn. 
Into  it  we  may  enter  and  tarry  long,  catching  its  harmonies 
broken  at  times,  but  still  possessed  of  the  sweetest  and  sub- 
limest  cadences. 

Many  were  the  miraculous  things  told  of  him  in  antiquity 
indicating  that  he  was  truly  a  child  of  the  Gods.  On  that 
hot  day  while  he  was  going  to  Thespia,  he  seems  to  have 
received  his  first  revelation ;  he  fell  asleep  along  the  road 
and  the  bees  lit  upon  his  lips,  depositing  there  waxen  cells 
for  honey ;  when  he  woke,  he  began  to  sing ;  such,  says  the 
ancient  narrator,  was  the  beginning  of  his  making  hymns. 
Then  the  appearance  of  Persephone,  Goddess  of  the  Lower 
Regions,  to  the  Poet  in  a  dream,  complaining  that  to  her 
alone  of  the  divinities  he  had  never  written  a  hymn,  was 
justified  by  his  -character ;  dark  Tartarean  realms  he  avoids, 
but  delights  to  dwell  on  the  upper  earth  in  Greek  sunshine. 
Therefore  he  was  the  special  favorite  of  Apollo.  God  of 
Light,  whose  games  he  has  celebrated  in  such  rapturous 


276  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

splendor ;  the  priestess  at  Delphi  announced  to  all  Greece  to 
give  to  Pindar  a  share  of  the  first-fruits  equal  to  that  of  the 
God.  Then  too  the  proclamation  was  long  afterward  heard 
at  the  Delphic  shrine :  "  Let  the  poet  Pindar  come  in  to  his 
supper  with  the  God."  Indeed  he  is  the  product  and  cul- 
mination of  Delphi,  thither  we  shall  have  to  follow  him  in 
order  to  reach  the  deepest  and  richest  vein  of  his  character. 
In  the  dell  of  the  Oracle,  at  the  fount  of  Castalia,  under  the 
tops  of  Parnassus,  we  shall  have  to  place  him,  where 
prophecy  and  poesy  rocked  the  hills  with  musical  wisdom, 
whereof  he  is  the  highest  expression.  Pindar,  on  the  whole, 
may  be  taken  as  the  best  Delphic  utterance  remaining  for  us 
to-day. 

Still  he  belongs  here  too,  and  in  him  all  Thebes  turns  to 
harmony — that  discordant  Thebes  so  full  elsewhere  of  tragic- 
destinies  ;  nay,  that  sensual  Thebes,  receiving  its  nickname 
from  swinish  indulgence,  becomes  through  him  the  most 
ethereal  of  poetic  existences.  It  is  one  of  the  marvels  of 
this  land  that  it  could  bring  him  forth,  him  the  most  ideal  of 
men.  From  this  fat  soil  he  sprang,  this  heavy  air  he 
breathed,  upon  this  gross  vegetation  he  fed,  yet  he  has  the 
freest  rein  and  the  widest  bound  of  all  poets,  often  a  little 
too  sudden  in  his  earth-defying  leaps.  To-day  we  confess 
him  unrivalled  in  the  lyric ;  he  has  the  exaltation,  the  sweep 
of  imagination  and  the  greatness  of  thought  which  belong  to 
all  supreme  poetic  utterance. 

But  the  quality  in  which  he  surpasses  every  poet  whom  I 
have  read  after,  is  what  may  be  called  his  harmony.  Not 
that  light  superficial  tiling  called  by  the  critics  harmonious 
versification  is  meant  now ;  this  true  harmony  flows  from 
the  deepest  of  matters,  it  is  the  harmony  of  the  All,  of  tin-' 


Thebes  and  Plataea.  277 

Universe  uttering  itself  in  the  measured  syllables  of  the 
bard.  At  his  best  moment  each  word  is  set  in  vibration 
which  sings  long  afterward  in  the  ear  or  rather  in  the  soul, 
indeed  one  will  never  get  rid  of  that  music  truly  heard ;  but 
such  a  word  is  only  a  note  of  the  song  which  in  its  com- 
pleteness will  make  your  whole  being  throb  and  thrill  in 
attunement  with  its  strains.  Yet  not  you  alone,  but  nature 
outside  of  you  vibrates  to  the  chords  of  the  lyre  which  the 
poet  touches ;  both  the  inner  and  outer  world  are  absorbed 
into  the  stride  and  swell  of  his  harmonies.  All  Time,  too, 
is  therein  made  musical,  as  to-day  sunny  Thebes  seems  to 
be  gently  moving  to  pulsations  of  those  ancient  hymns. 

Such  is  the  Pindaric  music,  unattainable  by  any  external 
combination  of  sounds  and  syllables,  or  by  any  arrangment 
of  the  scanning  machine ;  what  modern  would  get  it,  if  only 
thus  it  could  be  reached  ?  It  goes  far  deeper,  as  it  must  in 
all  true  poetry;  the  rhythm  must  lie  ultimately  in  the 
thought  wedding  itself  to  speech;  the  words  are  but  the 
outward  drapery  dropping  into  symphonic  folds  from  the 
repturous  pulsations  within ;  the  fountain  of  Pindar's  har- 
mony is  in  the  soul,  and  there  only  can  it  be  truly  heard. 
It  is  a  great  mistake  to  think  that  the  music  of  poetry  comes 
from  the  jingle  of  sounds,  short  and  long,  accented  and  un- 
accented, from  the  employment  of  open  vowels,  from  the 
abolition  of  certain  consonants  in  certain  situations.  Much 
talk  of  this  kind  has  been  heard  of  late ;  but  such  doctrines 
can  do  hardly  more  than  construct  a  well-regulated  poetical 
machine  which  will  grind  at  any  time  with  any  person  turn- 
ing the  crank ;  thus  we  may  attain  a  light-flowing  Italian 
melody  at  the  very  best,  but  not  all-pervading,  all-subduing 
organ  harmonies.  First  there  must  be  the  thought  great 


278  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

and  worthy,  then  it  must  pulse  with  an  inner  ecstasy  which 
bursts  forth  into  utterance. 

No  counting  of  syllables,  then,  is  going  to  reveal  to  you 
the  deepest  secret  of  poetic  harmonies.  It  is  true  that  in 
verse  measure  is  necessary ;  but  this  is  the  mechanical  part, 
it  is  the  outer  to  which  there  must  be  an  inner  that  creates 
it  and  puts  it  musically  on  like  a  rich  glowing  vestment. 
Poetry  cannot  do  without  that  fixed  recurrence  of  accents 
called  meter ;  even  the  sea,  most  melodious  of  Nature's  in- 
struments, has  a  measured  rhythm,  a  regular  beat  in  its 
rise  and  fall,  as  if  the  waves  were  keeping  time  after  some 
invisible  master.  Yet  hardly  are  we  to  think  of  the  meter 
the  while,  but  to  hear  the  music;  it  is  the  harmonious 
thought  of  Pindar  which  makes  every  word  drop  tuneful 
from  his  lips  ;  too  often  his  strains  get  lost  in  that  labyrinth 
of  metrical  schemes,  which  produce  so  much  discord,  at 
least  among  grammarians.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  Pin- 
dar's verse,  and  all  true  verse,  makes  its  own  scheme  as  it 
goes  along,  to  a  degree ;  it  throbs  great  waves  of  harmony 
through  any  soul  musically  attuned,  without  scansion ;  for  I 
must  refuse  to  believe  that  the  dry  prosodical  man  who 
scans  Pindor  is  the  sole  person  who  has  become  heir  to  his 
melodious  wealth.  An  inborn  poetic  sense  may  perhaps  be 
better  tested  by  Pindar's  verse  than  by  that  of  any  other 
poet ;  if  no  music  be  heard  there,  whatever  the  outer  ear 
may  be,  the  poetic  soul  is  of  dubious  existence. 

This  harmony  then  combined  with  his  exaltation  is  Pin- 
dar's highest  poetical  characteristic.  Next  to  him  perhaps 
Dante  should  be  placed,  who  likewise  possesses  the  power  of 
setting  all  in  vibration  to  the  strains  of  his  poetry ;  even  the 
dry  abstractions  of  scholastic  theology  move  in  his  Paradiso 


Thebes  and  Plataea.  279 

with  a  strange  enraptured  rhythm.  Here  also  lies  the  chief 
miraculous  gift  of  our  Milton,  though  he  is  behind  the  two 
who  have  been  mentioned.  These  are  pre-eminently  the 
poets  of  harmony,  to  my  mind ;  others  greater  than  they  have 
existed  because  of  the  posession  of  a  still  greater  quality,  in 
conjunction  with  this  one. 

Pindar  is  the  most  rapt  expression  of  the  Greek  world,  the 
Delphic  utterance  of  it  we  may  say.  His  sympathy  with  Hel- 
enic  life  is  complete ;  he  is  in  the  main  content  to  live  as  his 
forefathers  lived ;  we  do  not  find  in  him  the  profound  ques- 
tionings of  the  Attic  poets,  he  is  too  harmonious.  He  does 
not  assail  the  established,  he  is  at  one  with  the  religion  and 
morality  of  his  age — a  conservative  poet  we  may  consider 
him.  Yet  he  will  not  accept  all  the  myths  which  hare  been 
handed  down,  nor  does  he  fail  to  castigate  certain  evils  of  his 
city  and  time.  But  he  is  not  a  satirist,  not  a  revolutionist ; 
he  is  in  harmony  with  the  world  and  the  world  with  him ;  so 
that  he  becomes  the  throbbing  utterance  of  the  games,  of  the 
festivals,  of  the  songs  in  that  joyous  Greek  life  around  him. 

But  it  is  time  to  leave  the  unseen  musical  house  of  the 
poet,  and  take  a  morning  walk  with  him  up  the  Dirkean 
stream  which  winds  around  the  hill  on  which  the  city  is  built 
and  babbles  transparent  at  his  very  door-sill.  The  slant- 
ing rays  are  glancing  over  it  somewhat  as  he  beheld  them ; 
yet  in  his  lines  even  the  sunbeams  are  gifted  with  new  splen- 
dor. One  looks  up  at  the  old  walls  still  girding  the  brow  of 
the  hill  with  their  remains,  those  are  the  stones  that  danced 
into  their  place  yonder  to  the  tune  of  Amphion's  lyre,  ac- 
cording to  the  fable ;  still  there  is  a  rude  harmony  in  that 
massive  Cyclopean  work  of  the  olden  time.  A  pile  of  stones 
which  has  been  pushed  from  the  wall,  one  will  think,  shows 


280  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

the  trace  of  Alexander  who  destroyed  the  city  anciently ; 
there  they  have  lain  ever  since.  Gigantic  masonry  was  that 
of  early  Greece,  laying  foundations  to  last  forever,  and 
jointing  the  huge  boulders  to  the  sound  of  music,  it  is  said. 
But  look  at  the  modern  hut  upon  the  wall,  and,  as  it  were, 
growing  out  of  it;  the  little  stones  seem  about  to  fall 
asunder,  held  together  by  no  strong  cement  nor  by  gravity, 
nor  by  any  harmony ;  one  small  window  looks  down  upon 
Dirke,  out  of  which  a  rag  is  hanging.  Such  are  indeed 
often  the  ancient  and  the  modern  in  contrast,  forming  the 
two  interchanging  threads  of  our  Hellenic  journey. 

Here  the  stream  divides  into  two  channels,  an  artificial  and 
a  natural  one,  running  almost  side  by  side.  Further  on 
little  arches  and  aqueducts  appear,  many  now  old  and 
neglected ;  there  is  a  sort  of  play  with  the  waters  whose 
current  is  just  large  enough  to  allow  itself  to  be  pleasantly 
handled  and  toyed  with.  On  the  roots  of  an  old  elm  the 
pedestrian  will  sit  down  for  a  while ;  not  far  off  is  a  rustic 
bridge  spanning  the  brook,  composed  mainly  of  ancient 
materials,  if  not  ancient  itself,  for  the  eye  is  often  greeted 
with  a  finely  cut  piece  of  stone  or  even  of  marble.  Under- 
foot traces  of  foundations  come  to  view,  hardly  determina- 
ble  now ;  shrines  and  temples  we  place  here,  for  we  know 
that  this  little  valley  was  full  of  them  in  antiquity.  At  one 
point,  from  the  marks  yet  visible,  and  still  more  from  the 
situation,  I  imagine  some  fane  to  have  been  built  over  the 
stream,  for  here  Dirke  ripples  along  most  happy  and  full. 
Some  caves  too  we  shall  notice,  once  inhabited  by  the 
nymphs ;  the  niches  to  hold  the  image  can  still  be  seen. 
Thus  Dirke  sweeps  around  the  base  of  Thebes  from  the 
semi-lunar  ridge  toward  the  North ;  for  the  round  Cadmeian 


Thebes  and  Plataea .  281 

hill  reposes  in  the  arms  of  yet  another  hill,  crescent-bhaped, 
like  the  old  moon  resting  in  the  new ;  between  these  two 
hills  Dirke  keeps  up  her  babble.  Happy  stream!  try  to 
look  at  it  with  ancient  eyes  as  a  thing  divine,  bestowing 
good  gifts,  purifying  the  land  and  the  people ;  still  more 
regard  it  with  the  eye  of  the  old  poet  as  a  thing  of  beauty, 
in  whose  waters  are  often  seen  shapes  hinting  of  what  is 
fairest  and  best  in  that  antique  world. 

Still  modern  matters  must  not  drop  out  of  view,  so 
much  duty  we  owe  to  our  own  time  that  we  should  at  least 
live  in  it.  White  fustaneilas  are  before  our  path,  following 
the  plow  in  the  narrow  valley  between  the  city  and  the 
crescent;  you  will  see  the  plow  turn  up  the  relics  of  a 
whole  world  passed  away,  the  soil  is  filled  with  bricks,  tiles, 
mortar,  bits  of  marble  and  potsherds.  Only  in  the  invisible 
realm  can  it  be  constructed  again,  and  this  is  also  one  of 
the  duties  of  the  traveler  in  Greece.  New  voices  now  float 
in  the  air ;  they  come  from  gossiping  washerwomen  who  are 
still  heard  along  Dirke,  invoking  the  nymph  of  the  stream  to 
aid  them  in  the  great  work  of  purification ;  their  tongues  at 
least  falter  never — be  it  prayer,  or  some  bit  of  village  scan- 
dal. A  school-boy  passes  with  books  under  his  arm ;  I  stop 
him  and  enquire  much;  he  reads  me  a  passage  from  the 
Education  of  Cyrus  in  old  Greek,  there  under  the  elm.  Go 
on  to  school,  thou  art  indeed  the  star  of  hope  for  Thebes, 
for  Greece,  rising  over  Dirke  and  illuminating  her  waters. 

So  we  may,  follow  Dirke  up  to  one  of  her  sources ;  half  a 
mile  or  so  from  the  city  the  stream  forks,  and  we  shall 
wander  along  the  branch  to  the  left  with  its  high  banks 
above  us.  Soon  we  approach  the  gushing  source — a  verita- 
ble shrine  of  the  Naids,  tricked  out  by  themselves  for  their 


282  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

own  chosen  seats.  A  light  waterfall  leaps  over,  the  wall  of 
rock  underneath  is  wet  and  mossy,  with  veins  of  water 
everywhere  pulsing  through  the  green  matted  moss ;  the  rills 
gathering  into  one  stream  meet  behind  a  small  island  on 
which  is  quite  a  large  willow  with  drooping  branches.  Just 
the  combination  of  rock,  water  and  sedge ;  in  a  lone  spot ; 
filled  with  old  memories — it  was  certainly  a  shrine.  Laugh 
at  your  extravagant  traveler ;  but  he  would  be  worth  noth- 
ing, I  maintain,  if  he  could  not  overflow  with  the  gush  of 
the  spring,  in  deep  joy,  saying  to  himself:  Yes,  I  have 
found  it,  this  is  the  home  of  the  nymphs  of  the  stream,  here 
they  dance  on  the  sedge,  yonder  they  bathe,  always  from 
this  source  they  wander  down  to  the  city  joyously  leaping 
over  the  pebbles,  making  sweet  music  to  the  sport  of  the 
waters. 

A  walk  up  Dirke  will  eminently  repay  us,  though  we  have 
to  add  much  to  its  present  appearance  in  order  to  recall  its 
ancient  glory.  Plane-trees  were  here  and  pleasant  prom- 
enades, with  many  a  white  statue  and  column  glimmering 
through  the  leaves.  But  mainly  Pindar  was  here,  and  daily 
took  his  walk  up  and  down  this  brook ;  still  it  is  musical 
with  his  voice  and  attunes  us  to  his  strain.  Who  cannot  be- 
hold him,  sauntering  along,  turning  up  his  face  gleaming 
with  exaltation  as  he  looks  at  the  sunbeams  falling  over  the 
Dirkean  stream,  the  holy  water?  In  him  indeed  the  nymph 
has  first  found  utterance ;  and  still  it  is  not  she  so  much  as 
he  that  holds  us  upon  this  spot  in  a  miraculous  spell.  Such 
is  Nature ;  we  hear  her  mostly  through  the  Poet,  to  whose 
vision  she  truly  reveals  herself.  Without  him  Dirke  is  only 
a  brook,  nothing  more,  just  like  thousands  of  other  brooks ; 
but  now  it  is  a  symbol,  beautiful,  perchance  sacred — he  has 


Thebes  and  Plataea.  283 

made  it.  Take  a  drink,  wash  your  face  in  the  Pindaric 
waters,  then  spring  up  the  bank. 

So  long  has  endured  our  peaceful,  idyllic  mood  attuned  to 
Pindaric  strains — but  hark !  a  trumpet  blowing  the  blast  of 
war  comes  echoing  over  yonder  ridge.  Thither  accordingly 
we  must  go,  hastening  up  the  slant  of  the  hill  to  see  what  is 
taking  place  beyond.  Passing  over  its  crest  we  note  a  wide 
valley  moving  into  view,  upon  which  many  herds  are  graz- 
ing ;  through  that  valley  winds  a  stream,  not  large,  but  called 
here  a  river.  It  is  the  Asopus  which  once  before  we  have 
come  upon  further  down.  Peasants  are  here  trimming  their 
vineyards.  What  is  the  name  of  yonder  village,  lying  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  across  the  valley?  It  is  called  Kokla, 
ancient  Plataea. 

Here,  then,  we  look  upon  the  battle-field  where  the  great 
struggle  of  Greece  with  the  Orient,  called  the  Persian  War, 
was  brought  to  an  end.  What  Marathon  had  prophesied 
was  now  made  actual,  the  full  meaning  of  that  victory  was 
confirmed  upon  these  meadows.  Greece  is  henceforth  to  be 
left  to  develop  within,  and  soon  the  external  war  will  be 
transformed  to  an  internal  one ;  the  Persian  she  will  find  in 
her  own  people.  Lofty  Kithaeron  yonder  looks  down  upon 
Plataea  from  his  snowy  summits — will  he  ever  behold 
another  such  a  struggle  at  his  feet?  Hardly  within  any 
imaginary  cycle  of  years ;  the  battle-line  of  the  World's 
History  has  moved  far  forward.  Over  the  meadow,  then, 
toward  ancient  Plataea  we  must  pass ;  perchance  the  place 
will  yet  give  back  some  echoes  of  the  old  conflict.  Wet 
spots  and  streams  again  obstruct  the  way,  but  they  are 
easily  forded ;  thus  for  hours  we  ramble  through  the  vaUey 
listening  to  the  ancient  clash  of  arms  and  the  tramp  of  the 


284  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

war-steeds,  mingled  now  with  the  very  pacific  refrain  of 
pastoral  bells. 

But  the  chief  interest  circles  around  those  battlements 
yonder,  still  visible  though  in  decay.  On  the  whole  the 
ancient  village  that  lay  there  may  be  said  to  have  possessed 
the  most  intense  individuality  of  any  Hellenic  community 
large  or  small;  its  people  were  the  most  Greek  of  the 
Greeks.  We  have  already  heard  of  them,  when  they  sent 
their  whole  population  to  Marathon,  1,000  strong,  to  drive 
out  the  Persian,  the  only  town  outside  of  Attica  which  did 
so ;  that  was,  however,  but  one  characteristic  deed.  They 
appear  in  the  first  great  muster-roll  of  the  Greeks  against 
the  Asiatic,  the  Homeric  catalogue ;  with  their  modest 
armament  of  nine  ships  they  open  their  career  and  remain 
true  to  its  principle  to  the  last.  For  it  they  suffered  untold 
afflictions,  yet  we  read  of  no  bending,  no  compromise. 
Destroyed  and  restored  at  least  three  times  in  the  course  of 
Greek  history,  the  community  preserves  the  same  inflexible 
character,  the  same  fidelity  and  patriotism.  Through  the 
legendary  and  historic  epochs  it  exhibits  the  one  fundamen- 
tal trait ;  in  the  mythical  conflict  on  the  plains  of  Troy,  the 
little  town  on  the  slope  of  the  Kithaeron  is  not  absent,  nor 
in  the  supreme  conflict  of  history,  fought  at  its  very 
gates.  That  town  is  Plataea  upon  whose  site  we,  with  a 
slight  effort  of  imagination,  may  consider  ourselves  now  to 
be  standing. 

Scarcely  five  miles  distant  in  a  straight  line  from  Thebes, 
it  is  in  every  respect  the  opposite  of  that  city.  The  fact  has 
already  been  mentioned  that  there  was  always  a  foreign 
element  at  Thebes,  hostile,  or  at  least  unsympathetic  with 
the  Hellenic  world.  Not  without  good  reason  did  the 


TJiebes  and  Plataea,  285 

ancient  traveler  consider  the  Plataeans  to  be  sprung  from 
their  own  soil,  in  contrast  to  the  strangers,  who  settled  on 
the  Cadmeia  across  yonder  ridge  on  the  other  side  of  Teu- 
messus.  Hence  the  bitter  enmity  between  Thebes  and 
Plataea ;  the  resolute  little  town  never  would  submit  to  that 
foreign  influence  like  other  Boeotian  towns.  It  is  the  one 
great  Panhellenic  spot  in  Boeotia,  though  other  Boeotian 
towns  are  not  devoid  of  patriotism,  particularly  Thespia. 
Nay,  this  may  be  said  of  Plataea,  that  of  all  the  villages 
famed  for  heroism,  it  occupies  rather  the  highest  place  in 
the  World's  History.  No  other  small  community  that  I 
know  of,  can  show  the  same  unswerving  devotion  to  the 
supreme  interests  of  its  nation,  and  of  its  race,  amid  such 
continued  and  terrific  outpouring  of  calamities.  Through 
all  the  great  Greek  historians  its  story  moves,  foiiunate  at 
times,  oftener  unfortunate — but  always  glorious  and  honora- 
ble. Destiny  justly  placed  the  final  victory  over  the  Orient 
under  its  very  walls,  and  called  that  victory  by  the  Plataean 
name ;  and  on  that  famous  day  the  meed  of  being  the 
bravest  of  the  brave  was  given  by  the  voice  of  the  assembled 
Greeks  to  the  Plataeans.  In  their  territories  the  monuments 
of  the  victory  were  erected  and  stood  for  centuries ;  new 
temples  to  the  Gods  were  built  from  the  spoils  of  the  van- 
quished ;  Zeus  the  Liberator,  the  God  of  this  Plataean 
battle,  and  of  the  whole  Persian  "War,  was  henceforth  to  be 
the  special  divinity  of  this  spot,  and  games  in  honor  of  the 
event  were  celebrated  by  all  Greece  under  the  presidency  of 
the  Plataeans.  Then  the  cloud  gathers  and  bursts  in  the 
Peloponesian  War ;  now  it  is  brother  against  brother ;  brave 
little  Plataea  is  encompassed  with  fire  and  sword :  but  I 
cannot  give  you  history  here,  read  the  account  of  its  siege 


286  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

and  destruction  in  the  adamantine  yet  deeply  pathetic 
words  of  Thucydides. 

Yet  one  more  peculiarity  must  be  mentioned  in  regard  to 
this  town :  it  produced  no  mighty  towering  individuality,  no 
Great  Man,  in  whom  it  seemed  to  sink  away ;  scarcely  has 
the  name  of  a  single  leader  been  preserved.  Far  different 
was  it  elsewhere  in  Greece;  the  Hellenic  world  developed 
the  individual  above  all  other  times  or  nations ;  its  great 
characters  are  still  our  exemplars,  our  heroes.  Not  so 
Plataea ;  its  people  seem  to  have  acted  collectively  and  of 
their  own  spontaneous  impulse;  in  the  great  battles  we 
always  read  of  them  as  a  whole — the  Plataeans  were  there. 
No  Great  Man  then  can  be  named ;  the  result  was  that  the 
town  seems  to  have  been  freer  from  dissension,  from  the 
partisan  conflicts  of  powerful  leaders  than  the  other  com- 
munities of  Greece,  it  acted  as  a  unit  under  its  deep 
Hellenic  impulse.  It  did  not  rear  men  stronger  than  itself, 
men  too  great  for  the  State,  but  each  member  of  it  seems  to 
have  fitted  harmoniously  into  the  whole.  As  intense  as  its 
enmity  to  Thebes  the  stranger,  was  its  friendship  for 
Athens  the  defender  and  bearer  of  Greek  civilization ;  and 
this  friendship,  so  true,  yet  so  humble,  is  one  of  the  tender- 
est  throbs  out  of  the  heart  of  Greek  history. 

Thus  the  Asiatic  is  defeated  and  expelled ;  all  Greece  is 
now  in  happy  jubilee  and  harmony  with  one  chief  exception. 
It  is  that  old  discordant  Thebes  with  its  foreign  note  on 
Greek  soil ;  during  the  great  Plataean  day,  its  people  fought 
desperately  in  the  ranks  of  the  Asiatic.  The  dissonance 
must  be  got  rid  of — so  thinks  the  victorious  Greek  army  still 
encamped  along  the  Asopus ;  forward  then  to  the  discor- 
dant city.  Again  an  army  of  heroic  shapes  appear  before 


Thebes  and  Plataea.  287 

the  seven  gates  of  Thebes,  capture  it  and  purify  it  of 
Medism,  of  Asiatic  tendencies.  So  we  recollect  that  the 
Argive  band  in  the  legendary  age  took  it  and  attuned  it  to  a 
Hellenic  note,  for  a  time  at  least.  History  and  legend  give 
the  same  utterance  concerning  Thebes ;  they  give  the  same 
utterance  also  concerning  Plataea ;  the  two  Boeotian  com- 
munities, not  six  miles  apart,  represent  the  mightiest  oppos- 
ing principles  of  the  World's  History. 

In  such  manner  Greece  is  again  made  harmonious  by 
casting  the  discord  out  of  Thebes.  But  who  does  it  ?  Pau- 
sanias,  the  great  leader  of  the  allied  Greeks  at  Plataea. 
By  his  victory  over  the  Persian  and  by  his  eradication  of 
Theban  Medism,  he  has  thrown  himself  to  the  front  of  the 
Greek  world,  and  become  the  bearer  of  Greek  civilization. 
But  his  success  has  made  him  too  great  for  his  time  and  for 
his  country;  he,  after  putting  down  the  Asiatic  and  the 
Theban,  falls  at  last  himself  into  their  guilt,  becomes  dishar- 
monious with  the  Greek  world,  and  medizes.  Thus  he,  too, 
like  those  old  legendary  Theban  heroes  makes  out  of  a  life  a 
tragedy.  But  not  he  alone;  another  Greek  looms  up 
during  these  Persian  wars  greater  than  even  he,  in  native 
genius  the  mightiest  individuality  that  Greece  ever  produced 
— Themistocles,  the  Athenian,  hero  of  Salamis.  What  be- 
comes of  him  ?  Alas !  he  meets  with  the  same  fate ;  he  flees 
to  Asiatic  soil,  he  seeks  the  favor  of  the  Persian  monarch, 
under  whose  sway  it  is  said  that  he  died  the  death  of  nature, 
still  he  died  with  the  purpose  which  made  him  deeply  tragic : 
the  purpose  of  undoing  all  his  great  work  for  Greece  and 
for  civilization. 

Such  is  the  end  of  the  two  most  distinguished,  and  we 
may  say,  mightiest  characters  of  this  mighty  epoch ;  after 


288  A   Walk  in  Hellas. 

performing  the  greatest  and  noblest  deeds  for  their  country 
and  race,  they  become  harsh,  all  jangled  and  out  of  tune, 
winding  up  in  shrillest  discord.  They  give  an  insight  into 
the  deepest  phase  of  Greek  spirit ;  the  heroic  character  was 
developed  to  such  an  extent  that  it  became  too  great  for  its 
country.  This  tendency  belongs  to  Greece,  to  all  Greece ; 
in  the  present  case  it  is  a  Spartan  as  well  as  an  Athenian 
whose  greatness  becomes  discordant  with  their  little  states. 
Never  has  any  society  developed  the  individual  so  perfectly 
and  harmoniously  as  the  Grecian ;  still  the  end  was  a  dis- 
sonance; as  the  result  of  his  training  and  life  he  became 
mightier  than  his  country,  mightier  than  institutions  and 
dropped  back  into  despotic  Orientalism,  which  can  endure 
only  the  one  individual.  This  danger  the  Greek  communi- 
ties themselves  felt,  and  it  was  a  problem  with  them  what  to 
do  with  their  mighty  characters,  too  mighty  for  them.  The 
ostracism  was  merely  a  peaceful  means  whereby  a  Greek 
city  sought  to  get  rid  of  one  of  its  Great  Men  when  it  was 
too  small  to  contain  so  many  of  them,  with  their  ambition, 
strength  of  will  and  intellectual  resources.  Nearly  all 
famous  Greek  characters  have  the  one  epitaph:  too  great 
for  their  country. 

The  historian  Thucydides  who  belonged  to  the  same  epoch 
and  whose  style  shows  the  same  towering  individuality,  has 
told  the  story  of  these  two  typical  men,  Pausanias  and  The- 
mistocles,  with  an  awe-inspiring  directness,  as  if  he  himself 
was  dazed  at  the  consequences  which  he  beheld  in  their  fate, 
however  much  he  tries  to  suppress  himself.  Well  may  that 
narrative  inspire  terror  in  the  nation  which  has  within  it 
such  a  terrific  contradiction.  It  reveals  to  the  Greek  world 
that  of  which  it  is  to  die ;  for  in  these  men  it  can  behold  its 


Thebes  and  Plataea.  289 

own  limitation,  can  look  down  from  the  very  pinnacle 
whence  it  will  be  dashed  to  pieces.  That  story  has  still  a 
throb  of  dismay  breaking  up  through  the  stern  self-control 
of  the  historian,  and  moves  the  reader  with  a  kindred  awe. 
Well  it  may,  both  for  us  and  for  the  old  Greeks,  since  it 
shows  the  outcome  of  their  most  illustrious  characters,  and 
of  their  world.  It  is  a  prophecy  indeed — because  the  pro- 
foundest  fact  of  the  nation  and  age. 

These  great  characters,  then,  are  the  hand- writing  in 
which  we  may  read  the  destiny  of  Greece,  their  end  prefig- 
ures her  end.  The  disease  of  which  the  Great  Man  dies  is 
the  disease  of  his  country,  sooner  or  later  his  fate  will  be 
her  fate.  For  she  has  brought  him  forth,  and  imparted  to 
him  the  intensest  phase  of  her  own  nature  at  his  birth ;  con- 
centrated into  one  burning  point  of  individuality  he  has  all 
that  she  has — both  her  strength  and  her  weakness.  The 
mother's  mole  flames  red  from  his  forehead,  had  we  the  eye 
to  see  it  there ;  upon  his  acts  is  always  stamped  in  letters  of 
fire  her  character,  indeed  her  destiny.  So  this  happy  har- 
monious Greece  will  become  all  discord,  nay,  is  destined  to 
relapse  into  the  very  principle  which  she  has  so  gloriously 
met  and  put  down.  After  the  greatest  deeds  and  mightiest 
harmonies,  she  will  fall  into  contradiction  with  herself,  like 
Themistocles,  like  Pausanias.  These  two  are  her  prophetic 
sons,  in  their  actions  foretelling  her  end;  she  will,  after 
conquering  the  Orient,  drop  back  into  Orientalism,  and  be 
absorbed  into  an  Eastern  empire ;  she  brings  forth  Alex- 
ander, conqueror  of  Asia,  mightiest  of  all  her  sons,  mighty 
enough  now  to  destroy  her,  and  fulfil  the  prophecy  of 
Themistocles. 

Such  is  the  account  of  the  Greek  Historian ;  but  the  same 


290  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

story  had  been  told  long  before  him  quite  as  impressively 
and  in  far  more  brillient  colors  by  the  Greek  Poet.  Legend 
too  has  revealed  the  Greek  character  in  its  deepest  phase 
and  made  its  innermost  spiritual  scission  the  theme  of  its 
•greatest  masterpiece.  In  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad  is  nar- 
rated the  famous  quarrel  between  Agamemnon  and  Achilles. 
Who  is  Achilles  ?  The  surpassing  Hero,  the  great  Individ- 
ual who  spurns  authority  and  moodily  retires  from  the  con- 
flict, letting  the  enemy  conquer.  There  also  the  Heroic 
Individual  is  too  great  for  obedience  to  the  established  in- 
stitutions ;  there  also  untold  calamities  fall  upon  the  Greek 
host  and  many  souls  are  sent  to  Hades ;  and  the  Poet  must 
sing,  as  his  truest  poetical  theme,  not  the  taking  of  Troy  or 
the  submission  of  the  Orient,  but  the  wrath  of  Achilles,  the 
Heroic  Individual.  Homer  and  Thucidydes,  singer  of 
legend  and  writer  of  history,  so  diverse  in  form,  give  the 
same  fundamental  utterance  concerning  their  own  nation's 
character. 

But  there  is  one  heroic  individual  of  Greek  history  who 
does  not  produce  this  discord,  and  strange  to  say  he  is  of 
discordant  Thebes.  Look  off  yonder  from  this  Plataean 
height  where  we  now  stand,  to  the  left  some  five  or  six 
miles ;  there  is  the  field  of  Leuctra.  Let  all  else  sink  out 
of  sight  as  it  well  may,  but  notice  that  man  marshaling  his 
Theban  wedge  and  smiting  the  hitherto  invincible  Spartan 
column  with  utter  discomfiture — it  is  Epaminondas,  the 
most  ideal  man  in  Greek  history,  evidently  the  completest 
most  universal  Grecian  man.  Though  endowed  with  the 
highest  gifts  of  thought  and  action,  though  harassed  by  envy 
and  persecution,  he  will  never  become  discordant  with  his 
city.  We  may  pronounce  his  fundamental  trait  like  that  of 


T/iebes  and  Plataea.  291 

Pindar,  to  be  harmony — harmony  developed  into  thought, 
deepened  into  character,  and  finally  realized  into  action. 
The  greatest  qualities  he  possessed,  yet  not  in  conflict  with 
one  another  nor  with  the  world,  but  trained  to  a  perfect 
symmetry,  or  even  musical  concord. 

Throughout  his  education  we  find  that  he  lays  stress  upon 
harmonious  development  of  both  body  and  mind.  His 
early  gymnastic  training  sought  physical  power  combined 
with  ease  of  motion ;  then  he  exercised  himself  in  the 
chorus  with  dancing,  which  gave  rhythm  and  grace  to  his 
movements.  Music  he  learned  with  great  assiduity, — the 
flute,  the  lyre,  the  song — thus  attuning  his  emotional  nature 
to  the  agreement  of  sweet  sounds.  But  the  highest  branch 
of  his  education  was  the  study  of  philosophy,  the  supreme 
science,  which  orders  and  attunes  the  whole  universe  for  its 
true  disciple.  Also  the  philosophy  which  Epaminondas 
studied  should  be  noted :  it  was  that  of  Pythagoras  whose 
principle  was  based  upon  number,  like  the  science  of  har- 
mony itself,  and  whose  supreme  utterance  is  heard  in  the 
music  of  the  spheres.  Such  was  his  education,  in  violent 
contrast  to  the  ordinary  Theban  athlete,  overfed  and  igno- 
rant, the  gross  product  of  Boeotian  vegetation ;  but  he  is 
the  completely  harmonious  man,  gifted  with  utterance  too, 
for  in  eloquence  he  rivals  the  great  Athenian  orators,  win- 
ning laurels  even  from  silver-tongued  Callistratus. 

With  such  a  happy  training  let  us  proceed  to  the  final 
test,  the  action  of  the  man.  Here  we  shall  all  confess,  that 
the  deeds  of  the'  patriot  Epaminondas  are  the  supreme  har- 
mony of  Greece  in  the  realm  of  noble  conduct.  He  never 
became  too  great  for  his  country,  and  turned  disharmoni- 
ous, like  those  other  mighty  Greek  characters.  He  brings 


292  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

organization  into  the  Theban  polity,  and  organization  of  the 
highest  order  is  harmony.  Nay,  his  whole  purpose  extends 
beyond  his  own  city's  narrow  limitations,  and  seeks  mani- 
festly to  bring  some  kind  of  harmony  into  discordant 
Greece.  The  chief  glory  of  Thebes  is  that  she  produced 
Epaminondas  ;  without  him  she  is  nothing,  worse  than  noth- 
ing, as  regards  action.  Pelopidas  shines  too,  but  by  his 
light,  as  his  friend  ;  this  friendship,  this  perfect  accord  with 
another  soul,  must  be  noted  as  one  of  the  harmonies  of 
his  life,  and  is  one  of  the  sweetest  notes  of  the  period. 
Epaminondas  is  all  Thebes,  all  Theban  history  of  honor; 
when  he  is  taken  away,  there  is  left  mainly  her  discord,  and 
her  sudden  supremacy  sinks  with  him  into  the  grave. 

Such  is  the  Theban  man  of  action.  But  as  we  come  back 
toward  the  city,  thinking  of  him,  Dirke  is  again  babbling 
over  the  pebbles  at  our  side.  Pindar  too  arises,  not  the 
man  of  action,  but  the  singer  of  harmonious  action.  The 
two,  Pindar  and  Epaminondas,  truly  belong  together ;  each 
is  perfect  in  his  sphere,  in  happy  concord ;  yet  each  is 
supremely  harmonious  with  the  other.  In  them  the  world 
of  action  and  the  world  of  musical  expression  are  two  great 
symphonies  in  complete  unison.  Like  Pindar's  broken 
lyre,  the  life  of  Epaminondas  has  reached  us  only  in  frag- 
ments of  the  grand  Whole — fragments  handed  down  mainly 
by  an  unfriendly  historian,  Xenophon;  still,  even  under 
the  touch  of  an  enemy,  that  harmonious  life  reveals  all  its 
notes.  In  him  there  is  no  excess  of  hatred  against  his  foes, 
no  cruelty,  no  jealousy  of  rivals,  no  wild  ambition,  no 
avarice, — all  is  in  happy  rhythm  and  proportion.  But  mark 
the  most  harmonious  strain  of  his  character :  he  can  obey 
as  well  as  command,  fulfil  the  humblest  duties,  as  well  as 


Thebes  and  Plataea.  293 

the  highest.  Never  forget  that  typical  anecdote  how  he, 
serving  as  common  soldier,  is  called  forth  from  the  ranks  to 
save  a  Theban  army  from  destruction,  and  does  save  it; 
thus  he  sweeps  from  the  lowest  place  to  the  highest 
authority,  without  extravagance  or  infatuation,  without  dis- 
sonance of  any  kind.  So  we  must  place  him  above  all, 
above  Pausanias  and  Themistocles,  who  became  discordant; 
— Epaminondas  is  the  completest  most  universal  Grecian 
man. 

Thus  we  ascend  again  into  Thebes,  the  Ismenian  stream 
runs  through  the  valley  in  many  a  conduit,  and  recalls 
tuneful  shreds  of  hymns  vanishing  melodiously  into  forget- 
fulness.  It  too  vibrates  gently  to  the  music  of  ancient  Pin- 
daric measures,  lying  embedded  there  like  a  jewel ;  but  the 
harmonies  of  the  poet  now  pass  over  into  deed,  and  his 
exalted  rhythm  realizes  itself  in  the  actions  and  character  of 
a  man.  Pindar  is  fulfilled  in  Epaminondas.  From  the 
twain  old  discordant  Thebes  is  throbbing  with  new  melo- 
dies ;  those  tragic  dissonances,  which  we  heard  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  day,  are  swallowed  up  in  the  happy  strain  of  the ' 
evening.  Let  us  enter  the  walls,  those  walls  whose  stones 
moved  into  their  places  to  the  sound  of  Amphion's  lyre, 
marching  forth  from  their  quarries ;  still  they  palpitate  in 
the  twilight  to  the  ancient  music.  The  temple  of  Ismenian 
Apollo  rises  anew  on  the  sacred  height  now  in  our  presence ; 
it  shows  the  white  columns  in  soft  movement  around  the 
holy  shrine  out  of  which  well  forth  the  strains  of  the  God  of 
music.  SucE  a  result  has  come  out  of  dissonant  Thebes,  the 
fierce  dualism  has  vanished ;  now  you  may  understand  how 
that  Cadmus,  the  fatal  stranger,  was  wedded  to  Harmonia, 
the  daughter  of  Zeus. 


TALK  ELEVENTH. 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia. 

We  must  get  up  early,  if  we  wish  to  make  the  present  trip 
in  one  day,  at  our  customary  gait.  For  we  cannot  think  of 
hurrying  through  this  classic  landscape,  as  if  we  had  on  our 
hands  a  piece  of  pressing  business.  Much  is  there  on  our 
way  to  be  looked  at  with  leisure ;  therefore  about  an  hour 
before  sunrise  we  slide  out  of  the  door  of  the  wineshop  into 
the  street  still  dark,  and  grope  along  down  the  Thebau  hill 
into  the  Megalos  Dromos,  or  Great  Road  which  leads  to 
Lebedeia.  We  pass  by  Dirke,  not  now  radiant  with  the  sun 
glancing  over  her  waters,  but  wrapped  in  a  Stygian  cloak ; 
well  it  is  thus,  for  she  must  not  detain  us  to-day.  Cotton 
wagons  are  already  moving  with  slow  rumble  over  the  high- 
way ;  the  burdened  donkey  trudges  on  through  the  dark,  all 
invisible  except  the  ears  which  still  move  backward  and 
forward ;  dogs  rush  out  at  you,  but  you  must  keep  in  hand 
the  protecting  stone  which  they  have  the  power  of  seeing  by 
night  as  well  as  by  day. 

But  the  Dawn  has  now  come,   suddenly,   silently — still 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia.  295 

here  she  is,  softly  throwing  her  creain-colored  mantle  over 
the  mountains.  Aurora  is  indeed  a  light  stepper ;  nobody 
ever  beheld  her  face,  only  her  shadowy  white  folds  trailing 
behind  can  be  seen  after  she  has  already  darted  by  you. 
During  some  wink  of  the  eye  she  came  and  went ;  I  wake 
up  of  a  sudden  to  observe  her  already  flown  far  to  the 
West.  But  she  has  left  her  blessing ;  at  her  touch  all  forms 
begin  to  free  themselves  of  darkness  and  grow  distinct. 
The  wagons  roll  by  now  visible ;  ask  the  drivers  how  far  to 
Lebedeia.  The  first  one  will  say,  ten  hours ;  the  second, 
nine ;  the  third,  noticing  the  sharp  gait  of  the  pedestrian  in 
the  morning  freshness,  will  answer :  Thus  you  will  make  it 
in  eight  hours.  All  of  them  pronounce  the  name  of  the 
town  Lebedeid,  throwing  the  accent  forward  to  the  last 
syllable,  in  Romaic  fashion. 

The  twilight  of  the  morning  seems  to  hover  longest 
around  yonder  hill  off  to  the  right ;  you  can  notice  it  wrap- 
ped in  a  fine-woven  shroud  of  haze,  while  the  plain  about  it 
reposes  in  clearest  sunlight.  You  are  continually  coming 
nearer  to  it,  still  the  dim  film  of  Dawn  refuses  to  reveal  dis- 
tinctly the  summit.  That  is  the  mountain  of  the  Sphinx, 
she  who  gave  the  riddle  which  was  solved  by  Oedipus,  being 
still  to-day  somewhat  wrapped  in  haze.  After  its  solution, 
says  the  legend,  she  cast  herself  down  from  her  eminence 
and  perished ;  when  her  secret  had  been  guessed,  she  could 
no  longer  exist.'  But  approach  the  mountain  and  look  up 
with  sharpened  vision ;  you  will  still  see  the  face  of  a 
woman  there  in  the  rock  gazing  intently  upon  the  waters  of 
lake  Copais.  Then  she  has  not  cast  herself  down  but  re- 
mains high  up  there,  with  her  old  riddle  for  you  and  me  as 
well  as  for  Oedipus — which  riddle  we  too  must  solve  at  the 


296  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

peril  of  our  existence.  With  rude  stone  features  she  gazes 
into  the  mirror  of  the  reedy  Copaic  waters,  trying  to  behold 
some  image  of  herself  therein,  one  thinks,  That  seems  to 
have  been  the  old  problem :  to  see  her  own  visage,  to  find 
out  what  she  is  herself.  Very  difficult  indeed  it  is,  O 
Sphinx,  for  thee  to  behold  thy  face  in  the  unsteady  and 
often  slimy  surface  of  Copaic  slough ;  still  on  sunny,  wind- 
less days  thou  mayst  witness  some  dim  image,  which,  how- 
ever, vanishes  with  the  first  strong  breath  of  air  among  the 
reeds.  Gaze  on — thousands  of  years,  I  prophesy,  must 
sweep  over  thee  before  thou  canst  fully  behold  thyself  re- 
flected in  the  transparent  crystal  at  thy  feet.  Another 
Oedipus,  many  others  must  pass  and  give  some  answer  to 
thy  question  ere  thy  foundations  of  rock  will  tremble,  and 
thou  wilt  precipitate  thyself  from  thy  altitude  to  the  com- 
mon level  of  the  earth. — We  must  move  on,  and  leave  the 
Sphinx  still  gazing  down  into  the  waters  with  the  thin  veil  of 
haze  slightly  drawn  over  the  stony  face ;  there  you  too  may 
behold  it  in  your  journey. 

But  on  the  left  we  glance  over  the  ridge  with  a  different 
kind  of  feeling.  For  behind  there  we  recollect  that  ancient 
Thespia  lay,  from  whose  ruins  still  comes  a  fresh  breath  of 
Panhellenic  patriotism.  With  Plataea  it  refused  to  give 
earth  and  water,  the  symbol  of  submission  to  the  Persian ; 
its  name  appears  in  the  two  great  muster-rolls,  the  legend- 
ary and  historical,  of  Greece  against  the  Asiatic.  Nor  must 
we  fail  to  do  our  share  in  correcting  the  injustice  of  fame ; 
700  of  its  citizens,  though  dismissed,  refused  to  leave 
Leonidas  at  Themopylae,  and  perished  with  him  there ;  yet 
those  Thespians,  with  equal  heroism  and  greater  devotion, 
seem  always  to  be  forgotten  in  the  glory  of  their  fellow 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia.  297 

combatants,  tke  300  Spartans.  But  we  shall  not  forget 
them,  the  brave  men,  as  we  look  upon  their  land ;  nor  shall 
we  pass  over  those  1,800  survivors  of  the  little  town  who 
came  to  the  Greek  camp  to  fight  at  Plataea,  though  their 
homes  had  been  plundered  and  burnt  by  the  enemy,  and 
though  they  in  consequence  of  their  losses  were  too  poor  to 
purchase  equipments ;  still  they  came  with  undiminished  for- 
titude to  take  part  in  the  battle,  without  armor,  determined 
to  be  present  at  any  rate.  Such  was  one  vein  of  the  golden 
character  anciently  to  be  found  in  Thespia. 

But  not  because  of  its  glory  in  war  would  I  go  there,  if  I 
were  the  ancient  traveler,  but  to  behold  the  masterpiece  of 
Praxiteles,  the  statue  of  the  God  Eros  set  up  and  worshiped 
in  Thespia.  Thither  in  antiquity  many  pilgrims  flocked  to 
see  the  Divinity  of  Love  in  his  supreme  manifestation; 
thither  many  of  us  would  go  now  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his 
true  features,  or  perchance  to  conciliate  him  in  some  des- 
perate venture.  Nor  should  we  forget  upon  this  spot  the 
stratagem  of  Thespian  Phryne  beloved  of  Praxiteles,  who 
offered  her  the  choice  of  his  statues.  But  she  wanted  the 
best,  and  he  refused  to  tell  her  which  he  thought  was  the 
best,  till  one  day  she  started  the  shout  that  his  house  was 
on  fire  and  his  works  perishing ;  then  he  uttered  an  anxious 
cry  for  his  Eros,  whereupon  Phryne  chose  that.  Here  she 
dedicated  the  beautiful  image,  in  this  her  native  town,  after 
a  life  devoted  to  the  God,  deeming,  in  a  way  strange  to  our 
modern  consciousness,  that  even  her  vocation  was  not  with- 
out some  gleams  of  divine  influence  and  participation. 

To-day  we  are  hardly  allowed  to  speak  of  this  power  as  a 
God,  as  the  ancients  did ;  it  is,  however,  a  power  still  felt, 
divinely  felt.  Man's  being  is  twisted  together  out  of  many 


<£^        ^f^i 
7 


-  •• 


298  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

strands,  some  dark,  some  bright ;  but  the  brightest  strand 
is  that  contributed  by  Eros.  In  fact  life  is  insipid,  utterly 
prosaic,  if  it  be  not  flavored  in  some  way  by  his  fond  pres- 
ence ;  from  him  still  springs  the  youth,  the  poetry  of  exis- 
tence. Unaccountably  he  winds  through  and  colors  all  our 
actions  as  well  as  sayings ;  nought  is  sweeter  even  in  our 
worn  days  than  a  true  utterance  of  him  either  in  word  or 
deed.  It  is  no  wonder,  then,  that  in  the  olden  time  admir- 
ing crowds  came  to  Thespia,  just  to  behold  Eros  in  his 
highest  revelation ;  thither  we  too  would  go  with  joy  to  see 
such  a  conception  looking  out  from  the  marble. 

Nor  should  we  fail  to  hunt  up  in  the  Thespian  territory 
that  spring  which  punished  the  fair  youth  Narcissus,  who 
despised  the  might  of  Eros ;  looking  into  the  clear  waters, 
he  saw  his  own  face,  and  fell  so  deeply  in  love  with  it  that 
he  wasted  away  to  death.  Such  was  the  just  penalty  inflict- 
ed by  Eros  upon  the  youth  who  contemned  the  divine  gift, 
for  he  who  cannot  love,  is  smitten  with  a  desperate  self- 
love,  in  which  he  pines  away  to  some  miserable  end.  Such, 
at  least,  would  seem  to  be  the  warning  of  the  God,  trans- 
mitted in  his  legend;  such  too  is  that  wonderful  spring 
mirroring  some  inner  as  well  as  outer  visage  of  the  person 
who  gazes  into  its  depths.  To  it  you  and  I  would  now  go, 
were  we  certain  of  finding  it,  and  look  upon  its  glassy 
waters,  without  danger  from  the  image  therein  reflected,  I 
am  sure. 

Thespia  was  indeed  with  justice  a  favorite  resort  of 
Love's  pilgrim  anciently ;  three  statues  of  marble  stood 
there — we  may  think  of  them  as  standing  side  by  side — 
which  must  have  been  the  whole  revelation  of  this  theme. 
There  was  first  the  goddess-mother,  Aphrodite  herself, 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia.  299 

queen  of  Love  and  Beauty  among  the  Immortals ;  then 
came  her  son,  Eros,  not  a  babe  but  a  youth  in  whom  the 
mother  shows  all  her  might,  and  communicates  it  to  mor- 
tals ;  finally  there  was  the  mortal  form  Phryne,  in  whom  the 
divine  fire  was  most  perfectly  manifested — she  who  was 
loved  by  the  artist  himself,  and  through  whom  he  was  led 
up  into  the  ideal  world  of  his  Art.  Such  was  the  trilogy  of 
Love  composed  by  Praxiteles  and  possessed  by  the  Thes- 
pians, for  which  he  above  all  sculptors  was  best  gifted, 
since  the  point  wherein  his  style  culminates  is  to  express  the 
honeyed  languor,  the  dulcet  pains  which  come  from  Love's 
early  wound.  Strange  old  town  to  have  such  a  worship  fill- 
ing the  hearts  of  its  people,  and  harmoniously  regulating 
their  lives !  Yet  no  enervation  seems  to  have  resulted,  as  one 
might  think,  but  the  most  intense  energy  in  warlike  deeds 
could  be  aroused  there  upon  occasion.  Once  more  call  up 
those  three  sculptured  shapes,  all  seeking  to  reveal  Love  to 
men  and  to  attune  their  lives  to  its  sweet  concord.  Nor 
was  this  worship  a  foreign  one,  introduced  from  abroad,  but 
it  came  down  from  time  immemorial ;  for  the  oldest  statue 
of  Eros  there  was  simply  a  white  stone,  hardly  more  than  a 
primitive  fetich.  The  special  character  of  Thespia  must 
have  been  chiefly  moulded  as  well  as  expressed  by  this 
deity. 

But  there  was  another  worship  in  this  town  which  ought  to 
be  mentioned.  We  shall  not  wonder  when  we  learn  that  the 
Muses  were  specially  honored  at  Thespia,  for  the  Sisters 
Nine  always  follow  in  the  train  of  Eros  and  never  cease  to 
sing  the  strain  dictated  by  him.  Love  indeed  is  the  chief 
inspirer  of  poetry  and  the  chief  theme  thereof;  it  first 
makes  existence  musical  and  then  demands  some  musical 


300  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

utterance  of  existence ;  in  one  or  other  of  its  manifold 
forms  it  gives  the  glow,  the  rapture,  as  well  as  the  tunefu 
movement  of  the  great  works  of  literature.  If  we  get  into 
the  heart  of  them,  we  shall  find  this  emotional  thrill  of 
Love ;  with  it  human  speech  will  throb  in  unison,  being 
thrown  thereby  into  the  rhythmical  cadence  of  song.  So  we 
may  rejoice  in  the  ways  of  the  old  Thespians  who  did  not 
stop  with  the  worship  Eros,  but  added  the  Muses  to  express 
him  worthily,  and  to  reveal  truly  his  musical  nature.  Take 
him  away,  little  work  would  be  left  for  the  Nine  Sisters,  in 
fact  one  sister  could  easily  do  all  of  it. 

Moreover  there  was  at  Thespia  a  great  festival  sacred  to 
the  Muses,  celebrated  with  due  splendor  and  with  a  mighty 
outpouring  of  song.  For  it  seems  to  have  mainly  consisted 
of  a  musical  contest  in  which  all  the  poets  of  Greece  might 
take  part  in  competing  for  the  prize.  Thus  the  singer  came 
and  sang  in  praise  of  the  Muses,  in  praise  of  his  own  Art 
which  gives  the  tuneful  utterance,  whereby  all  Thespia 
must  have  been  filled  in  those  days.  Therefore  the  Thes- 
pians were  the  guardians  of  the  shrine  of  the  Muses  on 
Mount  Helicon,  to  which  we  have  now  come ;  here  is  the 
mountain  on  our  left.  So  we  wonder  at  the  life  of  man  in 
ancient  Thespia  filled  with  the  worship  of  Eros  and  the 
Muses ;  a  delicious  existence,  one  imagines  it  to  have  been, 
overflowing  with  Love  and  Music.  More  than  a  thousand 
years  the  town  lasted,  we  know,  adoring  its  melodious 
deities,  and  sending  up  delightful  strains  which  still  to-day 
seem  to  be  lingering  around  Helicon. 

Thus  one  seeks  to  make  the  old  Thespian  character  rise 
from  its  ruins,  and  take  on  some  definite  shape ;  for  even 
ancient-writers  hare  assured  us  that  every  town  in  Greece 


From  Tfiebes  to  Lebedeia.  301 

had  a  character  of  its  own,  distinguishing  it  pointedly  from 
all  of  its  neighbors.  The  leading  bad  trait  of  each  impor- 
tant Boeotian  town  is  given  by  an  old  traveler,  Dikaear- 
chus ;  each  had  its  controlling  vice  as  well  as  distinct 
virtue.  As  we  look  around  ourselves  and  observe  the  dis- 
tant landscape  with  its  ranges  of  hills  running  crosswise  and 
lengthwise,  we  remark  again  how  under  our  very  eye  this 
plain  of  Boeotia  divides  itself  into  several  lesser  plains, 
each  of  which  is  centered  in  its  own  community.  A  self- 
contained  life  is  possible  here ;  autonomy  is  printed  on  the 
face  of  Greece  everywhere,  spelled  out  in  rude  strong 
letters  by  the  mountains  and  valleys.  Whenever  we  cross  a 
ridge,  we  may  always  say :  this  is  a  distinct  part  of  Boeotia 
with  its  own  character,  with  its  own  towns  boiling  over  in 
fierce  energy  anciently;  each  is  seeking  primarily  to  be 
itself  and  nought  else.  Yet  there  was  too  a  Boeotian 
league,  we  know ;  there  was  a  common  Boeotian  principle 
in  them  all,  which  had  to  be  adumbrated,  though  dimly,  in 
some  institution. 

Villages  appear  to  the  right  and  left ;  some  of  them  seem 
to  be  lying  far  out  amid  the  reeds  of  swamp,  others  are 
placidly  perched  upon  the  hill-sides  ;  their  different  charac- 
ters one  may  to  a  degree  imagine  from  the  situation.  "We 
pass  by  ancient  Onchestus,  and  do  not  forget  its  distinctive 
mark,  which  was  the  temple  and  grove  of  earth-shaking 
Neptune,  celebrated  in  many  a  Greek  book  from  the  Iliad 
down.  But  a  touch  of  anxiety  begins  to  trouble  the  mood 
within  as  the  overcast  sky  darkens  the  landscape  without ; 
clouds  are  resting  upon  the  mountains  and  sullenly  look 
down  at  the  pedestrian,  threatening  him  with  a  dash  of  rain. 
Zeus,  the  cloud-compeller  is  up  there,  brewing  another 


302  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

storm ;  but  I  pray  him  to  hold  up  the  showers  in  those  deep 
fleecy  folds  of  his  celestial  drapery  till  I  reach  Lebedeia. 
That  one  rainy  trip  you  may  recollect ;  it  was  enough  for 
me,  and  for  you  too. 

One  name  lingers  in  the  mind  upon  this  road,  that  of 
Hesiod  the  Poet,  and  you  often  ask  yourself:  what  pro- 
duced him  here  ?  His  birthplace  lies  up  the  hill  to  the  left, 
ancient  Ascra,  still  inhabited  but  producing  no  Hesiods.  I 
meet  a  peasant  boy  at  the  side  of  the  road  ploughing: 
"  Point  out  Zagora  to  me  " — such  is  the  modern  name  for 
Ascra,  manifestly  corrupted  from  the  ancient  one.  His  re- 
ply was,  What  are  you  going  to  do  at  Zagora?  Are  you  a 
didascali,  a  schoolmaster?  Such  was  his  view  of  the 
stranger  asking  for  the  birthplace  of  Hesiod. 

But  we  have  already  arrived  at  grassy  Haliartus,  not  now 
so  grassy,  probably  as  it  was  in  Homer's  time,  but  watered 
still  with  abundant  streams  running  through  its  meadows ; 
one  of  these  streams  we  shall  cross  and  enter  the  wineshop 
where  there  is  a  chance  for  a  luncheon  with  recinato.  One 
half  of  our  journey  to-day  is  done,  yet  it  is  forenoon  still ; 
more  leisurely  we  can  make  the  rest  of  the  trip.  We  may 
note,  too,  that  the  sun  has  come  out  amid  the  clouds,  Zeus 
has  heard  our  petition  and  will  not  be  angry  to-day.  Pleas- 
ant are  the  meads  and  rills  of  Haliartus  flowing  full  of 
ancient  legend ;  fresh  too  is  the  breath  of  Greek  patriotism 
which  wafts  over  its  pastures ;  that  ancient  half-burnt 
temple  set  on  fire  by  Persian  invaders,  stood  here,  which  the 
citizens  would  not  rebuild,  but  left  standing  over  600  years 
at  least,  a  continual  reminder  of  the  eternal  struggle  of 
Greece  against  the  Orient. 
Emerging  from  behind  a  low  hill  we  again  come  to  lake 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia.  303 

Copais,  or  swamp,  as  it  ought  to  be  called,  full  of  reeds  and 
grass ;  far  off  toward  Orchomenus  the  narrow  stream  of  the 
river  Kephissus,  marked  bj  the  absence  of  marshy  vegeta- 
tion, flows  sluggishly  through  the  standing  waters.  Around 
the  edge  of  the  morass  we  now  skirt  for  miles  on  the  semi- 
lunar  bend;  sometimes  the  shallow  water  sweeps  up  and 
touches  the  bed  of  the  highway  at  our  feet.  In  antiquity 
we  must  suppose  a  different  aspect,  for  this  whole  swamp 
was  drained,  and  thousands  of  acres  of  the  best  land  in 
Greece  was  redeemed  for  cultivation.  Still  the  old  cata- 
bothra  or  underground  drains  can  be  seen,  tunneled  through 
the  rock  in  part,  but  now  choked  up;  even  this  rubbish 
from  her  great  ancient  works  modern  Greece  has  not  yet 
been  able  to  remove.  These  drains  seem  to  have  been  made 
in  a  fabulous  era,  though  not  by  any  means  fabulous  things ; 
for  yonder  they  exist,  an  astonishing  feat  of  engineering  to- 
day. But  these  reeds  we  shall  not  wholly  condemn,  for  of 
them  was  made  the  ancient  flute  which  gave  the  rhythmical 
beat  to  the  choruses  of  Pindar.  Thus  even  in  reedy  Copais 
there  is  music,  provided  the  man  may  be  found  who  can  ex- 
tract it. 

Here  then  we  have  passed  a  new  ridge  and  behold  a  new 
plain ;  therewith  rises  a  new  question  which  is,  however,  but 
the  old  one :  who  shall  control  the  plain  ?  In  like  manner 
we  crossed  the  Theban  ridge  from  Attica,  and  the  Plataean 
ridge  from  Thebes ;  now  we  enter  the  Copaic  plain,  with  the 
same  fierce  question,  anciently  to  be  settled  by  desperate 
warfare.  Thus  our  Greece  is  individualized ;  this  plain  too 
will  give,  with  its  adjacent  swamp,  a  different  character  to 
its  dwellers.  Look  across  the  water,  yonder  is  Orchomenus, 
the  abode  of  the  Graces ;  still  its  white  dwellings  seem  to 


304  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

rest  gracefully  on  the  hill-side  above  the  surface  of  the  lake. 
Once  she  was  mistress  of  this  valley,  a  wise  one,  if  we  may 
judge  by  her  .works ;  but  at  her  ascendancy  every  town 
squirmed,  fell  into  resistance,  loving  its  own  autonomy  at 
least,  though  not  so  intensely  that  of  its  neighbors.  Such 
was  the  education  of  Greece — each  man  must  be  a  hero,  and 
each  town  the  mother  of  heroes.  Every  person  was  of  im- 
portance in  such  a  community,  he  was  never  lost  in  an 
untold  Oriental  multitude.  To  such  a  consciousness  does 
his  training  lead — to  make  him  a  complete  individual. 

Often  one  hears  a  sigh  for  the  political  unity  of  the  Greek 
cities  that  the  fair  Hellenic  flower  be  preserved.  No,  that 
could  not  be ;  if  she  had  had  within  her  the  germ  of  unity, 
far  different  would  she  have  been — indeed  she  would  not 
have  been  Greece  at  all.  The  conditions  of  her  beauty  are 
the  sources  of  her  decay;  the  flower  would  not  bloom,  if  it 
did  not  wither.  Achilles,  the  heroic  type,  of  surpassing 
form,  fleetness,  and  strength,  is  fated  to  die  early;  so  does 
Alexander  the  historical  Greek  hero.  A  strong  central 
government  for  Greece !  not  at  all.  Her  glory  is  that  she 
gave  the  free  and  full  development  to  the  individual,  un- 
trammeled  by  the  fewest  external  restraints.  Never  has 
man  upon  the  whole  attained  to  such  a  musical  existence, 
and  made  of  himself  such  a  harmonious  physical  and  spirit- 
ual being — one  who  in  himself  combined  all  without  disson- 
ance, reflected,  we  may  say,  the  Universe.  Exemplars  they 
must  furnish  to  the  race  eternally,  for  they  were  whole  men. 
Now  man  has  become  special  and  a  specialist,  an  inflntesi- 
mal  part  of  the  colossal  organism  around  him.  Yet  we 
must  not  forget  the  exception  even  in  Greece,  namely,  those 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia.  305 

mighty  individuals  who  at  last  become  discordant  with  their 
country. 

But  there  is  no  discord  now ;  in  tuneful  company  the 
traveler  marches  along  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  for  it  is 
Helicon.  It  is  a  mountain  delightful  as  of  old ;  to-day  it 
has  the  same  friendly  appearance  which  was  anciently 
praised  so  much.  Its  soil  was  the  most  productive  of  any 
mountain  in  Greece,  we  r.ead:  wild  fruits  grew  there  in 
abundance  and  to  all  its  products  it  gave  the  sweetest 
flavor;  herbs  and  roots  which  were  elsewhere  injurious  to 
man,  lost  upon  Helicon  their  native  poison;  even  noxious 
serpents  became  harmless  upon  its  meadows.  One  can  well 
believe  that  it  has  some  such  power  to-day ;  it  draws  all 
care,  all  biting  anxiety  from  the  heart,  as  one  looks  up  at  its 
happy  summits  sporting  through  sunshine  and  clouds.  The 
touch  of  the  Muses  it  has  still,  though  their  voices  have  fled 
from  its  dells.  Nature  is  essentially  the  same  to-day  on 
Helicon  as  of  old;  that  wonderful  drug  Nepenthe,  which 
was  the  gift  of  Helen,  she  administers  through  the  breathing 
of  the  air.  Thus  we  wind  round  the  Heliconian  crescent 
having  Copais  at  our  feet,  with  breezes  slightly  rustling  amid 
its  reeds  and  rushes. 

Nature,  the  gazing  traveler  often  repeats  to  himself,  re- 
mains the  same  to-day  on  Helicon  that  she  was  of  old ; 
but  where  are  those  other  objects  of  beauty  which  once 
skirted  the  lake  ?  For  many  temples  were  built  here  looking 
off  over  the  waters ;  and  the  ancient  pedestrian  always  had 
one  and  perchance  several  of  them  in  his  view,  cheering 
him  forward  to  their  enclosure  with  a  mild  joy.  Statues, 
too,  there  were,  wrought  by  famous  masters ;  for  did  not 
those  old  Greeks  need  in  daily  life,  amid  their  toil,  art  as 


306  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

much  as  bread?  Particularly  Athena  seems  to  have  been 
honored  here ;  and  the  Goddess  is  reported  to  have  appeared 
at  one  of  her  temples  with  Medusa  head,  and  turned  the 
priestess  to  stone  who  beheld  the  awful  visage.  There  the 
stone  woman  stood  and  had  an  altar ;  daily  an  attendant  put 
fire  on  her  altar  and  cried  out :  lodamia  lives  and  asks  for 
fire.  O  lodamia,  why  did  the  Goddess  turn  thee  to  stone  ? 
Yet  thy  stony  statue  was  thought  to  live,  and  being  of  cold 
material,  to  cry  out  for  fire,  wherewith  to  warm  itself.  A 
wonderful  statue  indeed,  not  easy  to  be  hewn  out  of  speech- 
less marble,  yet  possible  for  some  old  Greek  Artist,  who 
could  make  stone  speak. 

Nor  must  we  omit  the  fountains  which  gushed  from  the 
sides  of  Helicon;  we  are  continually  passing  their  waters 
and  shall  always  stop  to  listen  for  a  moment  to  their  music. 
These  Heliconian  fountains  have  had  a  strangely  tuneful  des- 
tiny ;  they  have  become  the  types  of  poetic  utterance  for  all 
time  seemingly,  still  they  are  welling  forth  melodiously  from 
the  depths  of  the  mountain.  So  the  streams  of  poesy  rise 
from  their  deep  sources,  like  Aganippe  from  Helicon,  which 
made  musical  whoever  drank  of  its  waters ;  like  Hippocrene, 
bubbh'ng  up  here  to-day  from  the  track  imprinted  by  the 
hoof  of  the  flying  horse,  Pegasus,  and  overflowing  the 
woody  dells  with  clear  melody,  as  the  steed  mounts  heaven- 
ward ;  like  Tilphousa,  sweet  warbler,  near  whose  stream 
Apollo  thought  of  establishing  his  temple  instead  of  taking 
Delphic  Castalia.  All  these  fountains  are  still  on  Helicon 
and  we  may  reach  down  and  drink  of  their  waters ;  but  the 
fanes  built  over  them  have  disappeared,  the  nymphs  have 
fled.  Nature  is  still  here,  but  she  no  longer  calls  forth  the 
deification  of  herself  into  Art.  The  images  of  marble  are 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia.  307 

gone,  never  to  be  restored  by  mortal  hand ;  but  that  other 
image  of  Helicon,  its  spiritual  image  with  all  its  fountains 
leaping  forth  to  the  sunlight,  endures  and  will  endure ; 
human  speech  has  chiseled  out  new  statues  of  its  deities 
made  of  the  substance  of  man's  very  soul. 

But  along  yon  Heliconian  heights  was  witnessed  in 
antiquity  a  worship  which  characterizes  Greece  better  than 
any  thing  else ;  there  was  the  sanctuary  of  the  Muses,  the 
givers  of  harmonious  utterance  of  every  kind,  the  inspirers 
also  of  harmonious  lives.  The  musical  gift  which  is  heard 
not  only  in  human  speech,  but  subtly  orders  and  attunes 
Nature,  was  there  the  special  object  of  adoration;  the 
whole  mountain  was  a  sacred  place ;  a  large  grove  was  filled 
with  shrines  and  statues,  through  which  one  passed  and  be- 
held the  revelation  of  this  fairest  side  of  existence.  There 
was  first  the  holy  fount  Aganippe  at  the  entrance,  whose 
lustral  waters  purified  the  worshiper  of  discord  as  he  passed 
in;  then  were  the  images  of  the  Nine  Muses  wrought  by 
famous  artists,  filling  the  beholder  with  infinite  har- 
monies which  were  to  transform  him  into  a  musical  being  in 
thought,  word,  action.  Nor  was  the  nurse  of  the  Muses, 
Eupheme  the  Sweet  Voice,  absent  from  the  group,  though 
they  were  daughters  of  Zeus  the  Highest  and  of  Memory 
who  brings  to  the  present  the  great  deed  of  the  olden  time. 
Not  merely  by  poets  were  they  addressed  in  prayer,  as  in 
our  day,  but  also  by  the  common  people,  by  the  humblest 
man,  since  he  sought  to  make  himself  a  tuneful  note, 
though  small,  in  the  harmony  of  the  Universe. 

Next  were  the  images  of  famous  bards,  those  who  had 
been  breathed  upon  by  the  Muses,  and  whom  they  had 
gifted  with  musical  utterance  ;  these  bards  were  indeed  the 


308  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

first  teachers  of  the  race,  taming  wild  men  to  the  sounds  of 
concord  by  voice  and  instrument.  Linus  was  there,  whose 
name  goes  far  back  into  fable,  and  is  coupled  with  the 
earliest  form  of  song,  who  is  said  to  have  been  slain  by 
Apollo  when  he  had  reached  so  great  excellence  as  to  equal 
a  God  in  his  strain.  Thamyris,  the  blind  bard,  stood  there 
touching  his  shattered  lyre,  the  result  of  defeat  in  a  contest 
with  the  Muses ;  Arion  was  present,  still  perched  upon  that 
dolphin  which  he  had  charmed  by  song  to  bear  him  safely 
through  the  waves  of  the  sea  to  land ;  finally  Orpheus  was 
there,  the  greatest  of  all  these  fabulous  bards,  surrounded 
by  brazen  and  sculptured  animals  under  the  spell  of  his/ 
strain  amid  the  listening  woods ;  thus  Nature  is  subdued  by 
the  poet's  voice,  and  becomes  musical,  when  she  finds  ex- 
pression in  him.  Nor  should  we  forget  the  tomb  of 
Orpheus,  upon  which  the  Thracian  nightingales  built  their 
nests  and  hatched  their  brood,  for  thus  the  young  birds  sang 
more  sweetly.  Similar  was  the  case  of  the  Thracian  shep- 
herd who  at  mid-day  feh1  asleep  on  the  grave  of  Orpheus  and 
at  once  began  to  sing  in  so  loud  and  sweet  a  strain  that  all 
the  shepherds  and  plowmen  from  neighboring  districts 
flocked  to  listen  to  the  song.  Of  that  shepherd  we  may 
think  as  the  first  pastoral  poet,  the  first  Theocritus.  Thus 
iu  many  a  luscious  bit  of  legend  has  that  harmonious  world 
come  down  to  us,  setting  us  too  in  a  soft  vibration  'to  its 
notes.  Helicon  represents  it  still;  along  her  summits  all 
nature  is  attuned  to  a  hymn  and  subdued  by  some  melo- 
dious spell ;  trees,  animals,  man  fall  into  the  sweet  measured 
rhj-thm  sent  from  the  Muses. 

But  no  certain  word  of  these  ancient  Heliconian  bards 
has  come  down  to  us ;  only  concerning  their  power  and  ex- 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia.  309 

cellence  do  we  hear  a  few  fitful  strains  of  fable,  which  we 
may  well  believe  in  the  true  sense.  Now  we  come,  how- 
ever, to  the  central  image  in  this  sanctuary,  altogether  the 
most  significant  figure  here — it  is  the  poet  Hesiod.  His 
voice  has  reached  us  quite  full  and  resonant ;  still  we  may 
hear  it  echoing  through  the  dells  of  Helicon.  Look  upon 
that  face  of  his  which  has  possibly  preserved  some  of  the 
features  of  his  statue  standing  here  of  old ;  Helicon  culmi- 
nates in  him.  One  looks  up  at  the  summits  and  asks :  How 
did  ye  produce  a  poet?  In  what  way  did  ye  mould  his 
character?  Thus  the  traveler  winds  around  the  mountains, 
praying  Mnemosyne  to  cah1  back  for  him  some  strains  of  the 
old  bard,  and  to  attune  him  to  their  key-note. 

Here,  then,  he  arose  and  sang  his  song — a  song  of  signifi- 
cance to-day.  A  hard,  unbending,  somewhat  crabbed 
genius ;  still  a  genius,  gifted  with  Heliconian  dower. 
That  old  poem  of  his,  called  Works  and  Days,  is  a  genuine 
Boeotian  product ;  anciently  on  Helicon  it  was  shown,  writ- 
ten upon  a  leaden  tablet.  Many  a  harmonious  pulsation  it 
has,  though  at  times  rude  enough ;  still  better,  it  has  a  phil- 
osophy of  life  and  its  own  view  of  the  government  of  the 
world;  thus  it  must  have  gone  deep  into  the  hearts  and 
actions  of  men.  It  strikes  at  first  an  exceedingly  discor- 
dant note,  for  it  seems  to  imply  that  the  Gods  who  are  to 
be  worshiped  have  become  the  enemies  of  their  worshipers. 
A  woeful  view  of  the  world  is  that,  quite  enough  to  fill  any- 
body with  harsh  jangle  and  biting  acidulous  utterance. 
The  story  of'  Prometheus,  the  friend  of  man,  who  has 
covertly  to  steal  fire  from  Zeus ;  the  myth  of  Pandora,  the 
beautiful  woman,  sent  as  an  evil  upon  man,  express  the  hos- 
tility of  the  Supreme  Ruler ;  the  poet  might  as  well  cry  out : 


310  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

the  Gods  are  our  enemies.  A  melancholy  spectacle  indeed 
is  man  when  he  has  fallen  out  with  his  Gods. 

It  is  clear  that  the  old  poet  is  grappling  with  a  tough 
problem,  tough  still  for  us  to-day:  the  problem  of  the  origin 
of  evil.  Who  made  evil?  Who  permits  it?  Zeus  cer- 
tainly, if  he  be  the  Supreme  God ;  a  thought  distracting,  of 
diabolical  dissonance  in  the  soul.  To  account  for  its  begin- 
ning he  has  given  two  legends,  that  of  Prometheus,  and  that 
of  the  Five  Ages ;  both,  however,  go  toward  the  Bad,  and 
end  in  the  Bad  The  poet  has  suffered  evil,  much  evil ;  he 
asks  how  it  came  to  be,  and  finds  that  it  is  by  the  will  of  the 
Gods.  Then  he  is  unhappy ;  all  men  are  unhappy  in  like 
condition  of  mind ;  the  unhappy  consciousness  it  may  be 
called.  Not  a  poetical  mood  is  this,  one  thinks,  not  a  har- 
monious strain ;  still,  if  the  poet  have  in  him  the  gift  of 
healing  this  deep  disruption  of  soul,  he  can  change  it  to  one 
of  the  grandest  themes  of  song. 

A  second  dissonance  heard  in  Heisod,  in  strange  contrast 
to  other  utterances  of  Greek  fable,  is  his  dislike  and  con- 
tempt for  women,  revealed  in  this  legend  of  Pandora  and  in 
several  bitter  outbursts.  He  connects  her  indeed  with  the 
origin  of  all  evil  in  the  world,  making  her  somewhat 
similar  to  Eve  in  another  more  authoritative  book.  Yet  she 
cannot  apparently  be  got  rid  of,  so  the  old  surly  poet  makes 
some  scanty  provision  for  her  in  the  Family.  Strange  that 
he  too  should  carry  back  our  original  sin  to  the  sexual  dual- 
ism which  he  would  like  to  abolish,  but  does  not  see  his  way 
clearly  thereto.  No  beautiful  Helen  floats  before  his  im- 
agination the  worthy  cause  of  Trojan  wars,  but  homely  Meg 
is  his,  she  who  can  spin  and  grub.  Far  different  is  Homer 
who  has  placed  in  his  ideal  household  that  supreme  type  of 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia.  311 

womanhood  Penelope,  and  limned  many  an  outline  of  fair 
maidens  alongside  of  his  heroes. 

However  not  woman  alone,  but  man  too  comes  in  for  a 
share  of  his  objurgation — nay,  his  own  brother  named  Per- 
seb.  The  latter  has  spent  his  part  of  the  paternal  inheri- 
tance in  riotous  living,  and  is  now  seeking  to  get  by  foul 
dealing  that  of  the  poet;  he  has  even  corrupted  the  judges 
to  decide  in  favor  of  his  unjust  claim ;  it  is  a  most  unbroth- 
erly  act.  So  the  poet  addresses  advice  and  rebuke  to  the 
erring  brother — good  advice,  sharp  rebuke;  this  is  the 
frame-work  in  which  the  whole  poem  is  set.  Also  the  town 
Ascra,  where  he  lives  having  for  neighbors  those  unrighteous 
judges,  is  smartly  goarded  with  some  passing  strokes: 
"  Wretched  town,  near  Helicon,  bad  in  winter,  miserable  in 
summer,  never  genial."  His  age,  too,  is  the  iron  age, 
glorious  ages  have  preceded  it,  but  this  unhappy  age  is  left 
for  him,  and  bitterly  he  laments  his  lot:  "would  that  I  had 
not  mingled  with  this  race  of  men,  but  had  been  born  before 
or  died  afterward.  It  is  indeed  the  iron  race,  and  never 
will  they  cease  from  toil  and  wretchedness."  Thus  our 
Ascrean  pipe  gets  scrannel,  grating  its  squeaky  tune,  and  all 
Helicon  hisses  in  shrill  discord. 

The  sullen  old  grumbler,  after  venting  his  spleen,  will 
change  his  note,  and  pass  on  to  tell  of  agriculture ;  what 
else  can  a  man  do  but  forget  himself  by  labor  in  such  a  bad 
world?  A  soured,  gnarled,  unbending  nature;  who  could 
help  being  thus  when  all  the  Gods  have  become  his  enemies  ? 
It  is  not  a  cheerful  state ;  woe  be  to  the  man  who  has  fallen 
out  with  his  Gods,  believing  in  their  power  but  distrusting 
their  goodness.  Such  a  person  must  be  wretched  unless  he 
in  some  wise  run  away  from  himself ;  so  the  crabbed  but 


312  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

defiant  Hesiod  will  turn  and  swink  in  the  field  to  escape 
from  his  unamiable  theology.  Therewith  we  are  on  the 
way  to  get  rid  of  the  world  of  hateful  Gods  and  of  moral 
disorder,  arid  that  Hope  which  was  left  in  the  cask  of  Pan- 
dora as  the  last  solace  for  poor  mortal  men,  begins  to  fill  the 
breast  with  her  mild  illumination. 

It  would,  therefore,  be  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that 
the  poet  gives  no  solution  for  the  present  order  of  things. 
He  does,  and  in  this  lies  the  value  of  his  poem  for  men. 
The  Gods  have  hidden  the  means  of  living,  therefore  the 
human  being  who  eats  must  work.  Such  is  his  destiny  writ- 
ten upon  every  spot  of  earth — work,  work.  For,  says  the 
poet,  if  a  man  in  one  day  could  get  enough  for  a  whole 
year,  then  would  the  rudder  be  laid  aside,  and  the  labors  of 
oxen  and  mules  would  cease  from  the  land.  Therefore 
work,  work ;  every  human  being  must  have  something  to 
do ;  if  he  has  no  work,  then  he  has  no  business  to  be,  soon 
will  not  be,  by  decree  of  the  Gods.  In  former  ages  men 
lived  a  golden  life,  without  toil  and  care ;  the  earth  brought 
forth  her  fruits  spontaneously,  and  he  partook  of  them; 
there  was  no  wrong,  nothing  to  do  wrong  for ;  but  in  this 
age  the  jealous  Gods  have  laid  upon  mortals  the  hard 
necessity — work,  work.  Nor  is  the  compensation  of  work 
absent ;  we  through  work  defeat  the  spite  of  the  Gods  who 
sent  upon  us  evil ;  we  bridge  the  terrible  chasm  between 
ourselves  and  the  world,  and  even  get  the  better  of  the 
divine  decree.  The  Gods  themselves  are  conquered  by 
work ;  their  hostility  turns  into  a  blessing  by  work.  The 
necessity,  nay  the  absolute  worth  of  \vork  marks  the  deep 
strong  touch  of  the  poet,  who  therein  changes  from  a  dis- 
cordant grumbler  to  a  true  singer,  and  rescues  men  from  a 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia.  313 

world  of  ethical  confusion,  elevating  them  into  a  tuneful 
sphere.  Hence  he  sings  of  Works  and  their  Times,  first  as 
his  own  solution  of  the  great  problem  of  evil,  secondly  as 
advice  to  the  erring  brother. 

And  that  brother  who  seeks  to  get  on  in  lif  e  without  work ; 
nay  worse,  who  seeks  to  possess  others'  work  by  fraud  and 
by  bribing  judges — what  shall  be  done  with  him?     Shall  we 
work  and  let  him  riot?     No ;  and  here  this  poem  of  Hesiod 
introduces  the  second  principle  which  supplements  work  and 
overcomes  the  wrong  of  the  world.     It  is  the  conception  of 
Justice — Dike.     A   deep  unshaken  faith  in  Justice  is  the 
highest  attribute  of  the  poem;  though  the  Gods  fail,  still 
there  is  Justice.     Here  she  comes,  a  virgin  born  of  Jupiter, 
illustrious,   worshipful  among  the  Gods  of  Olympus ;   she, 
clad  in  the  viewless  air,  comes  bringing  ill  to  wrong-doing 
men  who  have  driven   her   away   and   have   made   an   un- 
righteous decision ;    irresistible  is  her  course.     But  whoso 
doth  not  transgress  Justice,  for  these  the  city  blooms  and 
the  people  are  prosperous ;  peace  reigns  among  them,  nor  is 
there  famine  or  calamity,  but  happy  festivals.     The  earth 
bears  for  them  much  substance  ;  on  the  mountain  stands  the 
oak  with  acorns  amid  its  branches  and  bees  in  its  trunk. 
Thus   the  Poet   describes  the  glories  of  Justice,  with  the 
deepest  insight  into  its  character.     For  he  plainly  sees  Jus- 
tice to  be  that  which  keeps  the  world  from  falling  into  chaos, 
and  he  has  stated  in  the  most  direct  manner  its  fundamental 
principle :  the  return  of  the  deed  upon  the  doer.     Listen  to 
him :  man  working  evil  to  another  is  working  evil  to  him- 
self, and  evil  counsel  is  worse  to  him  that  hath  devised  it. 

In  such  wise  with  rude  yet  mighty  words  he  announces 
the  supreme  law  of  the  ethical  world  and  smites  with  it  in 


314  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

Titanic  energy.  Well  might  that  brother  quake  with  secret 
terror  after  hearing  such  an  exposition,  for  the  intense  faith 
is  here  expressed  that  the  wicked  act  will  be  brought  back 
to  the  doer,  if  need  be  by  thrice  ten  thousand  demons, 
guardians  of  mortal  men,  avengers  of  wrong,  hovering  in 
misty  darkness  everywhere  over  the  earth.  Oh,  Perses,  re- 
form thy  ways ;  if  thou  wouldst  live  as  a  true  man  in  this 
world,  work,  work ;  then  be  just,  recognize  the  work  of  thy 
brother  as  fully  as  thine  own.  By  such  conduct  we  shall 
circumvent  the  spiteful  Gods ;  toil,  which  they  sent  upon  as 
a  curse,  will  change  through  Justice  to  a  blessing  which 
orders  and  upholds  the  Universe. 

Thus  the  Ascrean  pipe  undergoes  a  change  and  now  be- 
gins to  discourse  most  harmoniously ;  the  discordant  notes 
are  all  swallowed  up  in  sweet  melodious  utterance ;  the  very 
strength  of  the  former  dissonance  adds  to  the  depth  and  in- 
tensity of  the  new  harmony.  Helicon  grows  musical  again, 
the  Sisters  Nine  return  to  their  abode,  and  we  see  why  they 
handed  to  the  poet  the  laurel  branch,  holding  which  he  sang 
his  strains.  Still  the  fierce  dissonance  can  be  heard  whis- 
tling through  his  song,  like  a  northern  blast  through  sun- 
shine. But  you  come  to  love  the  rugged  nature  with  its 
adamantine  integrity  which  not  even  the  spite  of  the  Gods 
could  shake,  and  whose  harsh  features  often  kindle  into  a 
soft  glow  of  poesy  whenever  he  speaks  of  Helicon  and  its 
Muses. 

Such  is  the  purport  of  the  poem,  though  its  parts  be  often 
distorted  and  jumbled  together  at  hazard.  You  obtain  a 
strong  image  of  the  Boeotian  farmer  and  his  life ;  a  character 
is  here,  rude,  honest,  yet  thoughtful,  and  of  granitic  tough- 
ness. Amid  his  rustic  precepts  are  many  poetical  gems 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia.  315 

shining  with  their  earliest  unworn  lustre.  He  tells  you  that 
you  must  never  cross  a  stream  without  praying — a  truly 
Greek  instinct ;  nor  must  you  defile  the  spring  or  running 
brook — 'tis  an  unholy  thing.  Beware,  too,  of  Fama  or  Re- 
port, she  is  a  goddess,  easy  to  excite,  hard  to  calm — God- 
dess is  the  report  which  many  mouths  utter.  Most  genuine, 
too,  is  the  connection  of  the  poem  with  nature ;  it  hangs  from 
her  as  fruit  from  the  branches  of  the  tree ;  the  verses  seem 
to  be  a  product  of  the  seasons,  or  a  pendent  of  the  stars, 
like  the  works  of  which  they  sing.  There  is  no  artificial 
time-measurer,  but  nature  herself  calls  the  husbandman, 
when  the  cuckoo  sings  in  the  oak  foliage,  when  the  snail 
climbs  shunning  the  Pleiades,  when  the  cry  of  the  crane  is 
heard  overhead,  when  the  young  fig-leaf  is  as  large  as  the 
crow's  foot;  the  stellar  sky  in  the  night  speaks  down  to  him, 
from  strong  Orion,  from  Arcturus  leaving  the  sacred  stream 
of  Ocean.  The  ox-track  full  of  rain  is  the  measure  of  the 
rain-fall,  and  early  precursor  of  science.  Bathe  your  hand 
in  crossing  a  brook,  otherwise  you  are  hated  of  the  Gods. 
Primitive  spontaneous  utterances  of  poesy  are  in  this  book, 
revealing  nature  as  she  was  looked  upon  by  the  new  fresh 
eye  of  the  young  world ;  yet  amid  the  green  branches  are 
dry  twigs  enough,  abstract  doctrines,  proverbs,  maxims  of 
prudence,  pointed  sharply  to  penetrate  the  thick  skull  of  the 
peasant,  especially  the  Boeotian  peasant.  Many  of  the 
poet's  views  incline  to  the  form  of  proverbs,  some  bluntly 
inculcating  the  homely  virtues,  others  rising  into  a  sort  of 
esoteric  vein ;"  particularly  we  catch  breath  at  that  quite 
trancendental  one : 

•Fools,  they  know  not  how  much  more  is  the  half  than  the  Whole, ' 
and  we  ponder  whether  we  may  not  be  of  the  persons 


316  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

addressed.  But  it  is  high  time  to  say  good-bye  to 
the  old  bard ;  hereafter  we  have  hopes  of  meeting  him  often 
and  of  hearing  his  lines,  steeped  in  the  memories  of  Heli- 
con ;  his  book  is  indeed  henceforth  a  new  book. 

As  you  saunter  along,  looking  up  to  the  glorious  heights 
of  Helicon,  the  old  woman  will  meet  you,  rude-visaged,  with 
skin  wrinkled  and  burnt  by  the  sun  of  the  plain,  but  hardy, 
long-striding  for  a  woman.  Of  course  you  will  address  her ; 
broken  fragments  of  Greek  fall  from  her  mouth,  not  easy  to 
piece  together ;  some  dialect,  you  imagine,  with  ancient 
turns  perhaps.  Many  an  old  word  she  employs,  though 
wholly  uneducated ;  still  there  is  a  delight  in  listening  to 
her,  for  what  was  before  inanimate,  suddenly  becomes  living 
speech.  She  drives  a  donkey — ^so  did  her  mother  2,000 
years  ago.  She  takes  a  by-path  down  into  the  reeds  of 
Copais ;  I  pass  on,  still  glancing  up  at  the  summits  of  sunny 
Helicon,  and  wondering:  Can  this  be  you?  How  is  it  that 
just  you  have  come  down  through  Time  in  an  eternal  glory, 
and  have  traveled  over  the  world,  across  the  ocean,  and  are 
still  winged  and  in  flight?  Other  hills  too  have  had  fair 
dells  and  sunny  heights — why  just  you?  Some  great  man 
made  you,  you  never  made  yourselves  ;  some  bard  it  was,  the 
man  who  alone  can  attach  pinions  to  the  hills,  and  send 
them  on  their  flight  through  Time. 

But  whatever  we  may  think  about  the  old  woman's  origin, 
we  may  affirm  that  the  genuine  descendant  of  the  old  crow 
is  here,  sweeping  over  the  ridges  in  enormous  flocks  and 
lighting  upon  the  fat  meadows.  And  here  too  we  pass 
ancient  Coroneia  or  Crow's  Town,  famous  for  the  battles 
which  took  place  in  its  vicinity;  still  the  air  seems  laden 
with  curses  upon  two  men — Lysander  and  Sulla.  Both  of 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia.  317 

them  meet  a  deserved  fate  from  the  Gods  for  their  evil 
doings  in  this  plain,  whose  jarring  note  we  shall  at  once 
dismiss.  Further  up  is  the  fountain  Libethrias,  a  true 
nymph,  lying  deep  in  the  earth,  now  turned  to  solid  rock ; 
from  her  stony  breasts  gush  forth  two  fountains,  whose 
water  the  ancient  informant  declares  to  be  like  milk.  Yon- 
der too  is  a  pretty  village  so  cosily  perched  on  a  picturesque 
platform  in  the  mountain  that  one  cannot  help  imagining 
that  it  must  produce  a  poet.  About  half  way  up  the  moun- 
tain it  lies ;  the  peaks  above  seem  to  look  down  upon  it  with 
protection  and  love ;  its  name  I  cannot  tell  you,  but  simply 
let  it  pass  before  you  as  a  pleasing  Heliconian  image. 

The  declivity  of  Helicon  at  this  season  of  the  year  is  in 
possession  of  the  Wallachian  shepherds — a  foreign  race  on 
Greek  soil.  Several  times  to-day  I  have  passed  through 
their  flocks,  browsing  on  either  side  of  the  road,  or  reposing 
on  the  hill-side  in  the  sun.  New-born  kids  you  will  notice 
lying  against  a  bramble,  while  the  young  mother,  frightened 
at  your  approach,  runs  off  a  few  steps  and  then  turns  and 
looks  at  you  with  shy  maternal  anxiety.  Every  ewe  or 
goat  has  a  little  one,  sometimes  two,  running  along  at  her 
side  and  bleating,  fine-voiced ;  thereto  she  answers  by  a 
bleat  of  far  deeper  tones  ;  thus  thousands  and  thousands  of 
notes  are  resounding  to-day  over  the  mountains ;  such  is 
now  the  music  of  Helicon. 

In  the  midst  of  his  herd,  upon  a  rock,  stands  the  shep- 
herd, shaggy-mantled  as  one  of  his  own  sheep,  with  his  long 
crooked  staff  in  hand,  gazing  down  at  the  passing  stranger. 
He  will  call  to  his  flock  by  name,  as  if  they  were  human  be- 
ings, in  inquiry,  in  caresses,  in  reproof,  like  old  Polypheme ; 
often  a  shrill  whistle  is  the  note  of  warning  for  them  to  keep 


318  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

away  from  the  tilled  field,  which  whistle  can  frequently  be 
heard  coming  from  the  sunny  slopes  when  no  whistler  can 
be  seen,  for  he  is  screened  by  the  rocks  and  brambles  of  the 
mountain.  Some  of  these  Wallachian  shepherds  cannot 
talk  Greek,  some  can ;  of  one  of  the  latter  I  ask :  Where 
do  you  live? — Twenty-five  days'  journey  from  here,  on  the 
Pindus. — Will  you  take  me  with  you  when  you  return  home ! 
— Yes,  but  we  shall  not  start  for  some  months  yet. — That 
was  the  end  of  the  plan.  But  what  a  life !  To  spend 
it  among  sheep,  by  yourself,  in  the  open  air,  on  the 
mountains,  calling  your  flock  by  name  as  familiar  friends ! 
I  cannot  sleep  in  a  house,  said  one  of  them,  I  get  sick;  wo- 
men and  children  live  in  houses,  not  men.  Such  was  the 
pastoral  view  of  human  existence. 

But  not  shepherds  alone  are  found  upon  Helicon,  there 
are  also  shepherdesses ;  and  it  was  here  that  I  learned  a  new 
admiration  for  the  latter.  The  heroine  was  a  Wallachian 
woman.  She  was  sitting  amid  her  flock  on  a  stone ;  in  her 
lap  lay  a  bundle  which  she  seemed  to  arrange  with  unusual 
care  and  tenderness.  As  I  approached  I  was  astonished  to 
hear  a  faint  cry  proceed  from  the  bundle ;  at  my  request  she 
threw  open  the  folds  of  an  old  shawl  covering  it,  and  there  lay 
a  new-born  infant.  New-born  indeed,  for  its  eyes  were  not 
yet  open ;  it  lay  there  still  red  with  the  friction  of  parturition, 
and  appeared  to  be  enjoying  the  luxury  of  its  first  scream  in 
the  free  light  of  heaven.  She  rose  from  her  seat  and  threw 
a  stone  at  a  ewe  which  was  trespassing  on  the  grainfield. 
"  What,"  I  cried,  "are  you  already  up  and  out?  ".  To  my 
amazement  I  learned  that  she  had  been  overtaken  by  her 
pains  in  the  fields  some  hours  before ;  but  stopping  a  few 
moments  and  wrapping  the  little  new-comer  in  her  garment, 


From  TJiebes  to  Lebedeia.  319 

she  went  on  about  her  business ;  amid  her  flock,  she  too  had 
given  birth  to  her  kid.  Great  was  the  sympathy  of  the  trav- 
eler at  first,  but  she  needed  no  sympathy — for  was  she  not 
there  in  perfect  health  and  without  pain  ?  Still  I  could  help 
filliping  a  silver  drachma  as  a  beginning  in  life  to  the  young- 
ster, now  growing  louder  with  the  minutes.  Such  was  our 
real  Heliconian  shepherdess. 

All  day  Parnassus  has  been  looming  up  in  front  of  me, 
growing  nearer ;  yet  sometimes  I  have  quite  lost  sight  of  it 
in  the  envelopment  of  clouds.  One  may  well  wonder  what 
is  there,  what  it  has  in  store  for  the  traveler.  Repeatedly  it 
came  forth,  having  top  and  sides  strown  with  sunshine ;  but 
rain  is  still  threatened,  and  Parnassus  for  the  most  part 
hides  itself  in  cloudy  drapery.  Not  yet  has  it  revealed 
itself  to  the  approaching  guest,  but  he  looks  forward  with 
longing  glances,  and  in  golden  sheen  at  times  beholds  his 
goal.  Mighty,  but  very  vague  and  uncertain  is  the  expec- 
tancy hovering  around  its  summits,  yet  even  upon  the 
clouds  there  the  day's  radiance  has  a  tendency  to  disport 
itself.  Will  the  Muses  strip  off  that  vapor  and  come  forth 
into  clear  Greek  outline?  Wait;  we  shall  see. 

But  we  have  already  reached  a  spur  of  a  mountain  run- 
ning out  into  Copais,  it  is  the  extreme  tip  of  the  arc  upon 
which  we  have  been  moving  now  for  several  hours ;  let  us 
turn  around  and  look  back  at  it.  In  a  long  amphitheatrical 
curve  it  sweeps  around  from  the  opposite  tip  for  many 
miles ;  Thebes  is  out  of  sight,  but  villages  fleck  the  distant 
hill-sides ;  cotton  carts  can  be  seen  far  across  the  lake 
slowly  rounding  the  curve.  And  that  immense  curve  walled 
in  by  the  mountains  is  one  of  Nature's  own,  carefully  drawn 
by  her  with  a  huge  pair  of  compasses  from  a  center  taken 


320  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

somewhere  far  out  in  the  swamp.     Behold  her,  the  first  geo- 
metrician, now  in  the  very  act. 

But  up  and  forward !  Turning  the  spur  and  following  the 
road  a  short  distance,  we  come  to  Lebedeia,  lying  between 
Helicon  and  Parnassus.  What  a  musical  spot  ought  it  not 
to  be,  situated  between  two  such  abodes  of  the  Muses,  who 
may  sing  to  each  other  from  top  to  top !  Glancing  between 
the  twain,  one  seeks  to  solve  this  question :  Why  of  all  the 
world  did  their  worship  locate  just  here?  The  two  ranges 
confront  each  other  like  rivals ;  rivals  indeed  they  were ;  the 
people  in  antiquity,  one  feels  sure,  held  in  the  valley  be- 
tween a  tournament  of  the  Muses,  trying  to  settle  the  dispute 
as  to  where  was  their  true  seat.  Such,  it  would  almost 
seem,  was  then  the  vital  question  through  these  hills  and 
valleys — a  question  which  must  be  settled  by  trial  and  de- 
cision. But  what  people  at  present  deems  such  a  dispute  of 
any  significance  ?  The  other  great  question  has  now  arisen : 
Who  shall  trade  with  the  Ashantees,  who  shall  sell  a  pen- 
knife to  the  South  Sea  Islander?  For  such  and  similar 
questions  much  blood  has  been  spilled,  while  both  Helicon 
and  Parnassus  with  their  sweet  rivalry  have  been  quite  de- 
serted ;  in  mute  protest  they  still  stand  here,  wondering  to- 
day at  the  new  ways  of  the  world. 

As  we  approach  Lebedeia  and  glance  at  its  situation,  we 
ask,  What  is  its  character?  What  are  the  secret  sugges- 
tions of  Nature  upon  this  spot?  For  we  may  be  sure  that 
the  old  Greek  felt  them  and  wrought  them  into  some  form 
of  utterance,  legendary,  oracular,  divine.  Most  intimately 
he  felt  what  surrounded  him  and  then  bodied  it  forth  into  the 
myth ;  this  myth,  too,  bore  the  impress  of  his  spiritual  exis- 
tence. There  the  Greek  mythical  world  beautifully  hovers, 


From  Thebes  to  Lebedeia 

between  Nature  and  Spirit,  spanning  both  like  a  rainbow, 
yet  reflecting  both  in  one  fair  image.  Whoever  says  that 
Greek  Mythology  is  of  merely  physical  import,  mistakes ;. 
whoever  says  that  it  is  of  merely  spiritual  import,  mistakes. 
In  like  manner  the  Oracle  sprang  up,  even  the  God  had  the 
same  origin.  On  every  spot  of  Greek  ground  rose  that 
mythical  rainbow  from  the  Nature  there  into  the  heaven  of 
Spirit  above  it ;  so  we  look  now  before  us  with  expectancy 
and  ask:  What  shall  we  find  at  Lebedeia? 

Entering  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  we  note  first  that  it 
sits  at  the  mouth  of  a  defile ;  it  seems  to  have  been  born  of 
that  mountain  just  behind  it,  which  is  Helicon  or  a  contin- 
uation of  Helicon.  Springing  out  of  the  rocky  depths,  the 
town  lies  there,  now  in  the  sunlight,  but  once  hid  in  the- 
dark  stony  womb  of  the  mountain ;  still  back  of  the  houses 
you  will  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  obscure  gorge  which  opens 
into  the  town  and  seems  to  have  just  spit  it  out.  Lebedeia 
thus  appears  at  first  view  to  be  a  product  of  the  cleft,  yet 
lying  outside  of  its  jaws ;  she  must  be  a  child  of  this  moun- 
tainous Nature,  resting  at  present  in  the  bright  gleams  of 
Helius,  but  still  partaking  or  hinting  of  her  gloomy  origin. 
Some  slight  touch  thereof  will  yet  be  felt  by  the  sympathetic- 
traveler. 

But  listen !  a  noise  is  continuously  humming  through  the- 
streets,  but  it  is  not  of  men ;  some  sound  of  Nature  you  will 
at  once  discern  it  to  be.  It  is  the  song  of  a  brook  coming 
•out  of  the  cleft  there  and  dancing  in  many  a  rivulet  through 
Lebedeia.  It  £00  is  born  of  the  gorge,  from  that  same  dark 
mouth  it  spouts  forth,  like  the  town  which  it  fills  with  its 
murmurs.  Springs  too  gush  up  from  sunless  depths  of  rock 
and  laugh  in  the  sunbeams ;  their  pellucid  flow  and  babble 


322  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

seem  to  have  that  primeval  joy  of  first  beholding  light. 
Thus  a  perpetual  undertone  of  musical  waters  attunes  Lebe- 
•deia,  mingling  with  the  words  of  her  people.  Something 
therein  is  hinted ;  brook  and  town  are  in  a  secret  harmony, 
both  suggest  the  outgiving  of  Nature,  yet  bear  a  spiritual 
impress.  Assuredly  some  character  is  here  which  we  must 
further  seek  for;  legend  must  have  given  a  voice  to  the 
spot,  the  God  himself  must  have  found  a  holy  utterance  for 
the  place,  which  the  sensitive  Greek  heard  and  in  some  form 
'expressed.  It  is  no  wonder  that  an  Oracle  anciently  stood 
here,  the  Oracle  of  Trophonius,  whose  cave  is  still  in  yon- 
der mountain;  we  too  shall  consult  that  Oracle,  and  see 
whether  it  may  utter  any  word  for  us,  since  it  can  never  be, 
to  the  true  believer,  wholly  dumb. 


TALK  TWELFTH. 


Stop  at  Lebedeia. 

It  was  getting  late  in  the  afternoon  when  I  reached  the 
khan,  to  which  a  mule-driver  of  a  very  friendly  and  talk- 
ative turn,  conducted  me.  The  house  is  unpretentious,  the 
chief  decoration  being  a  porch  to  the  second  story ;  in  the 
rear  is  a  large  yard,  filled  at  this  moment  with  carts  and 
donkeys,  among  which  wind  tight-trowsered  red-moccasined 
men  in  fustanellas,  rudely  hurling  fair  fragments  of  old 
classic  speech  at  their  dumb  beasts  and  at  one  another. 
The  traveler  will  speedily  engage  a  room  for  the  night,  and 
will  ask  to  see  it ;  on  being  led  thither,  he  will  find  it  abso- 
lutely empty — bare  walls,  bare  floors,  chairless,  bedless. 
But  let  him  not  get  out  of  humor ;  whenever  he  wishes  to 
retire,  the  youth  in  attendance  will  bring  an  armful  of 
mats  and  blankets  which  will  be  spread  upon  the  floor, 
and  he  will  be  spared  the  labor  of  climbing  into  his  bed. 

There  is  still  time  for  a  short  stroll  through  the  town; 
that  undertone  of  rushing  waters  is  always  heard  and  excites 
curiosity  concerning  what  it  may  be  saying.  Upon  a  bridge 


324  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

I  stop  and  look  down  at  the  current ;  I  feel  a  twitch  at  my 
coat  and  turn  around ;  before  me  stands  an  officer  of  the 
Greek  army.  He  had  observed  my  foreign  dress  and  man- 
ner and  concluded  to  enquire  where  I  was  lodged ;  when  I 
informed  him,  he  pressingly  invited  me  to  share  his  quarters 
with  him,  but  I  thought  I  must  try  the  khan  for  one  night  at 
least.  It  was  only  one  of  several  offers  of  hospitality  ex- 
tended to  me  in  Lebedeia,  though  I  was  an  utter  stranger 
and  without  letters  of  any  kind.  With  a  very  pleasant  im- 
pression of  the  town,  I  go  back  to  my  room,  and  lie  down 
to  rest  with  that  curious  sound  of  rushing  waters  leading  me 
along  sunny  banks  into  happy  regions  of  slumber. 

Such  was  dreamland,  but  in  our  real  world  there  had  been 
pitchy  darkness  filled  with  driving  rain — storms  during  the 
entire  night.  In  the  morning  the  weather  looked  unsettled ; 
the  streams  had  overflowed  their  banks,  the  roads  were 
muddy,  for  the  Great  Road  had  now  been  left,  and  only 
niule-paths  led  forward  to  Parnassus.  So  we  shall  lay  over 
a  day  at  Lebedeia,  not  without  some  hope  of  entertainment. 

When  you  wake  you  will  again  hear  the  sound  of  rushing 
waters,  now  much  louder  than  on  the  previous  evening ;  the 
stream  which  flows  through  the  middle  of  the  town,  is  full. 
After  an  early  lunch  you  will  hasten  to  this  stream  and 
begin  to  follow  it  up  to  its  source,  for  surely  it  has  some 
very  near  relation  to  the  place.  Thus  you  will  be  led  to  the 
mountains  back  of  the  town,  toward  the  gorge.  At  many 
points  can  be  noticed  springs,  small  caves,  precipices 
beetling  over  the  dash  of  the  furious  torrent.  The  moun- 
tain shoots  up  into  a  number  of  peaks  which  look  like  the 
pipes  of  an  immense  organ,  upon  which,  you  may  think, 
Heliconian  music  might  still  be  played.  Nor  will  you  pass 


Stop  at  Lebedeia.  325 

unnoticed  some  plane-trees  which  hang  around  and  over  the 
stream  in  a  sort  of  fond  caress.  Arched  bridges,  too,  you 
will  observe,  spanning  the  stream  in  romantic  spots  through 
the  town,  joining  together  in  happy  embrace  what  had  been 
separated. 

Large  fountains  gush  up  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  near  the 
mouth  of  the  gorge,  and  flow  in  swift  clear  streams,  walled 
off  into  artificial  channels  which  wind  around  among  the 
houses.  Here  must  have  been  those  two  famous  springs, 
Memory  and  Oblivion,  of  which  the  ancient  traveler  drank 
when  he  consulted  the  Oracle ;  we,  too,  shall  taste  of  them 
now,  and  seek  to  get  its  response.  Notice  the  wild  current 
boiling  out  of  the  gorge ;  it  is  Herkyna,  the  dashing  Nymph 
who  still  makes  music  through  the  town ;  anciently  she  had 
a  temple  here  and  was  worshiped  by  the  people  ;  her  voice 
it  is  which  we  hear  humming  the  undertone  of  Lebedeia. 
A  legend  was  told  of  the  origin  of  this  stream :  Proserpine 
was  playing  with  a  goose  in  the  grove  of  Trophonius  not  far 
off,  when  the  goose  escaped  and  hid  under  a  rock ;  Proser- 
pine ran  after  it  and  removed  the  rock,  when  behold !  up 
rose  the  stream  and  flew  down  the  channel  on  its  white 
wings,  continuing  its  flight  ever  afterwards  and  being  called 
Herkyna ;  in  the  temple  on  the  bank  was  the  statue  of 
Herkyna  holding  in  her  hands  the  goose  ready  to  fly,  we 
may  suppose. 

Up  this  stream  into  the  gorge  whence  it  issues  we  shall 
continue  our  walk,  in  search  of  the  goose,  perchance ;  on 
either  side  lofty  walls  of  stone  rise  toward  heaven  and  form 
a  darkened  passage  which  gives  a  feeling  of  initiation  into 
some  sacred  mystery.  Cavities  you  will  observe,  natural 
and  artificial ;  places  are  cut  into  the  rock  above,  in  which 


326  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

you  will  locate  ancient  shrines.  Here,  too,  is  a  pedestal 
built  against  the  steep  cliff  just  at  the  edge  of  the  torrent; 
above  it  are  half  a  dozen  small  cavities,  hollowed  out  for 
images,  you  will  conjecture.  Immense  boulders  which  have 
fallen  from  the  top  lie  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  around 
which  the  waters  roar  and  surge  through  the  chasm.  Thus 
you  will  pick  your  way  up  the  gorge,  at  times  with  difficulty 
avoiding  the  splashing  swift  current,  which  roars  around 
you,  filling  the  hollow  passage  with  its  echoes.  At  one 
point  you  will  try  to  climb  up  the  sides  to  the  top,  but  you 
will  be  cut  off  by  an  overhanging  rock.  Descend  again 
into  the  gorge  and  listen  to  the  genius  of  the  place,  for  the 
God  will  not  yet  suffer  you  to  come  up  into  sunlight,  but 
you  must  first  catch  his  dim  whisper. 

What,  then,,  does  it  all  say?  Can  any  one  blame  the 
ancient  dweller  if  he  came  into  these  secret  hollows  and  asked 
them  to  speak  ?  It  would  seem  that  they  have  some  utter- 
ance for  man,  though  vague  and  mysterious.  Still  the  peo- 
ple of  to-day  place  in  these  shrines  images  of  the  Virgin  and 
Child,  and  name  them  after  the  Saints,  as  if  there  were  yet 
some  divine  influence  in  the  spot.  The  whole  expression  of 
the  locality  was  anciently  collected  into  one  voice — the  voice 
of  old  Trophonius,  the  Prophet,  who  was  the  most  ancient 
dweller  amid  these  rocks.  Upon  the  hill  overhanging  the 
town  was  his  sanctuary,  whence  he  uttered  his  oracles ;  long 
they  maintained  their  credit,  till  it  is  said  every  other  Boeo- 
tian oracle  had  ceased. 

The  rite  is  given  by  our  ancient  guide  Pausauias  who  con- 
sulted the  Oracle  in  person.  Preparation  was  insisted  upon 
— purification  and  sacrifice,  bathing  in  Herkyna.  After 
much  cleansing,  by  night  the  consulter  descended  into  the 


8 top  at  Lebedeia.  327 

cave  of  Trophonius,  which  was  a  large  subterranean  cham- 
ber, when  he  had  drunk  of  the  two  springs — of  Oblivion,  that 
he  might  forget  his  worldly  life,  and  of  Memory,  that  he 
might  remember  what  the  Prophet  told  him.  Into  the  cave 
was  an  opening  wherein  he  placed  his  feet;  suddenly  he 
was  drawn  into  a  still  deeper  cave  in  which  he  saw  things 
otherwise  invisible.  When  he  came  out,  he  was  placed  on 
the  throne  of  Memory,  and  his  vision  was  recorded  Yet 
the  process  was  without  danger  for  the  pure  in  heart  only 
one  death  from  the  consultation  is  recorded,  that  of  the  sol- 
dier of  Demetrius  who  descended  into  the  cave  with  the 
hope  of  getting  money  there.  But  the  indignant  Prophet 
cast  his  dead  body  out  of  the  earth,  not  even  by  the  ordi- 
nary passage. 

Such  was  the  Oracle  of  Trophonius,  whose  proceedings 
seem  not  without  a  touch  of  priestcraft,  but  on  the  whole 
they  seek,  at  times  with  the  strictness  of  an  allegory,  to 
figure  the  descent  of  man  into  himself,  into  his  own  soul. 
To  purify  that  by  many  days'  discipline  till  it  becomes  trans- 
parent and  reflects  clearly  somewhat  of  the  Divine,  has  been 
always  one  of  the  rites  of  religion.  So  old  TrophoniuB 
commanded,  and  was  a  true  prophet  for  his  people ;  so 
Nature  commands  here  to-day  in  this  gorge,  very  dimly  to 
be  sure,  still  it  is  a  command.  Her  obscure  voice  was 
gathered  into  the  Oracle  which  has  now  grown  almost 
speechless  in  a  much  clearer  light. 

Upon  this  spot,  then,  arises  the  necessity  of  the  religion 
of  Nature  who  was  consulted  in  her  Oracle,  for  here  she  has 
revealed  herself  in  a  wonderful  way.  If  now  we  can  only 
gather  her  voice,  that  voice  may  mean  something — that 
voice  is,  I  hold,  Trophonius.  Such  is  our  oracular  country 


328  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

irith  scenery  somewhat  resembling  Delphi,  particularly  thig 
gorge.  But  Delphi  is  far  more  colossal,  and  has  many  other 
things  wanting  at  Lebedeia — whereof  we  may  hereafter  have 
somewhat  to  tell.  Lebedeia  with  its  Trophonius  forms  the 
transition  out  of  Boeotia  with  its  Helicon  and  Muses  on  the 
mountain  tops,  to  Delphi  which  has  both  Oracle  and  Muses, 
in  the  abode  of  divine  Apollo.  Trophonius  is  only  an 
Oracle,  not  a  God ;  Nature  here  takes  on  a  more  earnest, 
darker  phase  we  may  say,  for  Delphic  Apollo  is  the  union 
of  poesy  and  prophecy  in  their  supreme  manifestation. 
Trophonius  is  still  the  dark  symbolism  in  which  the  unclear 
struggling  soul  finds  expression,  and  which  has  not  yet  been 
fully  unfolded  into  sunlight. 

Thus  we  have  here  some  faint  anticipation  of  Delphi.  An 
Oriental  symbolism  of  obscure  characters  and  rites  belongs 
to  Greece  also,  is  in  fact  its  primordial  unripe  stage  of  de- 
Telopment.  But  the  Greek  mind  will  unfold  out  of  this  dim 
condition ;  Greek  Art  will  abandon  vague  forms  and  leap 
forth  into  the  clearest  outline.  In  the  meantime  the  trav- 
eler also  will  have  come  out  of  the  dark  gorge  and  reached 
the  transparent  fountain  of  Memory  who  will  treasure  what 
the  Oracle  has  told  him  here.  With  the  utterance  of  Tro- 
phonius deeply  impressed  upon  his  heart,  he  will  descend 
into  the  town  and  mingle  among  its  people. 

There  as  you  cast  glances  into  the  passing  faces,  you 
will  consider  another  transition  to  be  manifestly  taking 
place — the  transition  to  a  new  type  of  people.  I  think 
that  every  attentive  observer  would  notice  the  change ; 
finer,  more  regular  features  begin  to  appear ;  besides,  there 
seems  to  be  something  of  a  mental  wakening  up — more 
quickness  of  apprehension,  more  vivacity.  You  will 


Stop  at  Lebedeia.  329 

imagine,  as  you  scan  the  faces  and  the  manners,  that  here  is 
a  truer  Hellenic  type,  that  some  drops  of  old  blood  have 
percolated  through  so  many  generations.  Women,  too,  be- 
gin to  appear,  though  shy  still ;  their  faces  are  getting  to  be 
more  free  from  Oriental  wrappage ;  one  I  have  seen,  which 
I  shall  remember — dark,  fine-featured,  with  lively  looks. 
Children,  too,  show  improvement  in  beauty,  sometimes  they 
have  blue  eyes  and  the  appearance  of  blondes.  The  trav- 
eler will  saunter  through  the  lanes  and  alleys  to  catch  some 
glances  ;  he  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  now  there  is  hope 
of  Helen.  That  which  he  has  hitherto  almost  despaired  of 
seems  to  be  growing  possible,  here  is  the  dividing  line  per- 
chance, with  a  mixed  race.  But  off  in  the  mountains 
yonder  she  must  be  hidden,  probably  undeveloped,  in  the 
garb  of  a  peasant  maiden,  still  the  germ  of  the  Argive 
queen. 

Also  one  will  not  fail  to  notice,  if  he  be  faithful  to  his 
main  task,  many  instances  of  the  Old  in  the  New ;  those 
two  youths  passing  down  the  street,  locked  in  each  other's 
arms,  call  up  the  ancient  conception  of  friendship  and  even 
of  love  between  the  same  sex.  Young  fellows  embrace  each 
other  and  kiss  with  a  sort  of  rapture — a  little  touch  of 
Platonic  Eros,  innocent  enough,  I  imagine.  They  will  sing 
a  song  together  with  much  exaltation — a  possible  conse- 
quence of  an  overdraught  of  recinato  which  mellows  the 
heart  wonderfully  in  this  Greek  climate.  Friendship  let  it 
be  called,  with  a  strange  interplay,  perchance,  of  sexual 
feeling,  somewhat  remote  from  the  Western  consciousness. 

I  turn  into  a  wineshop ;  here  enters  a  woman  with  perfect 
Greek  outlines  in  her  face,  but  with  a  bold  stare  in  it  which 
will  not  turn  aside  at  the  glance  of  a  stranger.  She  is  the 


330  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

first  Greek  female  that  I  have  seen  in  such  a  place;  she 
mingles  freely  among  the  boys,  smoking  her  paper  cigar- 
ette ;  she  talks  with  volubility  and  badgers  them  jestingly,  in 
words  which  I  do  not  understand,  and  it  is  probably  just  as 
well  that  I  do  not,  But  her  remarks  excite  their  laughter; 
I  ask  my  neighbor :  What,  is  that  the  custom  here  for  wo- 
men to  come  to  the  wineshops  ? — Oh,  no ;  she  is  the  only 
one  in  town  that  does  so ;  it  is  Maria,  do  you  not  know 
Maria? — I  cannot  say  that  I  do;  but  it  is  Maria,  is  it? — 
Very  manifestly  it  is  Maria — Maria  Magdalena,  but  as  yet 
without  the  repentance.  With  sorrow  one  turns  away,  see- 
ing this  phase  of  the  antique  still  in  the  modern,  yet  casting 
glances  at  those  perfect  lines  in  her  face  which  was  anciently 
a  Phidian  model. 

In  the  afternoon  the  rain  begins  again,  and  the  sauntering 
comes  to  an  end.  I  take  refuge  in  the  lonesome  khan,  go 
up  to  my  naked  room  and  look  out  of  the  window,  seeing  it 
rain,  with  a  slight  shiver.  To-morrow  threatens  to  be  an  ill 
day  again ;  the  thought  is  distracting.  The  place  is 
gloomy,  the  hours  grow  unendurably  tedious,  the  two  or 
three  books  have  been  read  to  death.  Now  the  traveler 
begins  to  repent  again ;  the  God  of  Light  has  fled  with  the 
sunshine,  the  classical  mood  departs  when  you  see  nought 
but  clouds  and  rain  through  the  window  of  a  Greek  khan. 
It  is  the  reverse  side  of  the  picture,  more  ugly  because  you 
have  been  spoiled  by  the  previous  glorious  days ;  your 
wings  refuse  to  fold  themselves  in  rest.  But  so  it  was  once 
before  on  a  rainy  day  at  Marcopoulo ;  then  followed  a 
happy  journey — so  it  may  be  again  to-morrow.  Hope  then ; 
yonder  is  Parnassus,  visible  often  through  the  clouds;  one 
day's  journey  will  bring  thee  thither.  Put  the  suu-god 


Stop  at  Lebedeia.  331 

within  thee  ;  have  him  rise  there  in  all  his  majesty,  scatter- 
ing his  beams ;  then  thou  wilt  be  independent  of  him  in  the 
outer  world,  and  canst  let  it  rain  in  peace. 

Yet  one  will  be  glad  when  the  shower  ceases  for  a  time, 
and  will  seize  the  opportunity  to  hurry  into  the  street.  The 
roar  of  the  waters  is  now  louder  than  ever;  the  gentle 
nymph  Herkyna  is  changed  to  a  wrathful  torrent.  But  she 
is  always  a  delight,  for  she  always  shows  in  some  way  her 
love  for.  her  own  dear  town  of  Lebedeia.  For  the  town  is 
truly  married  to  the  stream;  its  waters  are  borne  every- 
where through  many  a  conduit  and  rivulet,  which  turn  an 
indefinite  number  of  mills.  They  pour  over  dams,  forming 
cascades  of  various  sizes,  the  sounds  of  which  are  always 
heard  through  the  town.  This  is  the  well-known  undertone 
of  Lebedeia,  the  voice  which  is  always  speaking,  not  un- 
pleasantly; it  is  the  most  important  member  of  the  com- 
munity, the  one  who  has  most  to  say  with  genuine  Greek 
garrulity  aud  sprightliness.  So  Herkyna  with  her  many 
runnels  spreads  out  in  manifold  ways,  now  darting  under 
bridges,  then  drawn  into  mill-wheels,  often  washing  the 
stone  walls  of  some  house  that  has  a  portico  extending  over  the 
stream.  Therefore  we  may  call  Herkyna  a  blessing,  a 
divine  thing  for  Lebedeia,  to  whom  the  ancients  might  well 
erect  a  temple.  What  can  be  compared  with  her  bene- 
ficence! The  entire  prosperity  of  the  town  is  connected 
with  her  movement,  her  many  winding  channels  are  its 
arteries,  through  which  pulses  its  life-blood ; — Purifier,  too, 
she  is,  bearing  away  disease  and  discomfort ;  truly  we  may 
call  her  useful  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word. 

But  that  for  which  she  chiefly  deserves  divine  honors  is 
that  she  is  beautiful,  with  her  clear  full  gush  from  the 


332  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

caverns  of  darkness  rippling  into  daylight  and  rejoicing 
therein.  One  will  notice  from  the  khan  a  sort  of  horse-shoe 
falls  which  dashes  over  and  pours  down  like  a  little  Niagara, 
then  the  watery  arm  twines  in  a  loving,  mysterious  manner 
around  among  the  houses.  Never  did  I  see  a  town  so  inti- 
mate with  a  stream;  Verona  with  its  Adige  leaves  some 
such  impression,  but  not  so  strong  and  unreserved ;  it  is  a 
marriage,  not  of  convenience,  one  will  affirm,  but  of  love, 
in  such  mutual  joyous  embrace  do  they  lie.  Not  too  large 
is  the  stream,  not  an  uncontrollable  giant ;  in  many  places 
it  can  be  easily  stepped  over  on  the  friendly  rocks  which  it 
offers  in  the  middle  of  the  current.  But,  to-day,  till  the 
flood  runs  out,  which  it  will  in  a  few  hours,  the  Nymph  is 
somewhat  untameable,  even  wrathful. 

Yet  another  shower,  extinguishing  the  kindled  hope! 
Assuredly  the  Naiads  possess  the  town ;  even  the  sky  has 
become  a  fountain  this  afternoon,  spouting  down  innumber- 
able  jets  of  water;  the  happy  Gods  above  seem  to  have 
been  changed  into  water-nymphs.  Behold  the  descending 
streams  of  rain ;  Lebedeia  with  all  her  runnels  has  gone  up 
into  the  clouds,  filling  the  air  with  perennial  springs  which 
now  fall  down  into  her  earthy  lap.  The  unwilling  brooks 
refuse  to  be  separated  from  their  dear  town,  but  are  drop- 
ping back  entire  into  her  embrace  from  the  skies,  quite  as 
they  once  rose  out  of  the  earth  to  greet  her. 

Thus  we  may  connect  Lebedeia  with  her  stream  and 
springs,  with  her  gorge  and  mountains  ;  we  think  of  her  as 
born  of  this  Nature,  and  reflecting  its  visage  in  her  to  a 
degree  ;  this  rise  out  of  the  physical  world  must  have  been 
also  the  spiritual  principle  in  her  worship.  So  the  Nymphs 
were  born,  so  even  the  Gods  were  born,  like  Herkyna, 


Stop  at  Lebedeia.  333 

like  Trophonius,  like  Lebedeia  herself.  Where  is  the 
Poet  that  he  may  express  this  fact?  For  it  must  have 
been  sung,  being  a  true  theme  of  song,  of  deep 
musical  significance ;  certainly  it  must  have  attuned  some 
Greek  voice.  Out  of  Heliconian  mist  a  face  begins  to 
peer,  a  familiar  face ;  it  is  that  same  Hesiod  whom  we  have 
already  met  with  upon  Helicon.  But  now  he  has  a  new 
book  which  bears  this  title:  Birth  of  the  Gods;  a  very 
different  book,  you  will  observe,  from  the  last  one,  which 
we  spoke  of,  yet  with  many  sisterly  traces  of  relationship. 
Some  old  Boeotians  denied  its  authenticity ;  we  shall  not  do 
so,  but  place  it  somewhere  here,  as  having  its  origin  upon 
the  Heliconian  range.  Without  violence  we  may  think  of  it 
in  connection  with  Lebedeia,  with  its  dark  beginning  in 
Chaos  and  bright  outcome  in  the  reign  of  Zeus. 

The  poet  has  called  his  work  a  Theogony,  in  which  he 
propounds  a  problem  of  sacred  import :  The  Birth  of  the 
Gods.  Think  of  him  dealing  with  such  a  theme ;  he  and 
through  him  his  nation  have  then  arrived  at  that  stage  of 
spiritual  inquiry,  in  which  they  ask  and  seek  to  answer  this 
question :  How  did  the  Gods  above  us  come  to  be  ?  It  is 
the  search  for  origin,  origin  in  Time ;  where  will  it  end, 
having  all  duration  back  of  it?  At  bottom  it  is  one  with 
our  modern  question :  What  is  the  origin  of  Man  ?  Thus 
we  at  present  state  it,  having  no  longer  any  Gods  to  account 
for.  But  ancient  Hesiod,  not  yet  having  lost  his  faith,  puts 
the  inquiry  in  this  shape :  What  is  the  origin  of  the  Gods ! 
Which  being  found,  it  is  easy  to  discover  whence  Man 
came. 

This  is  indeed  one  of  the  strangest  phantasms  that  worries 
the  human  intellect,  this  question  of  the  Beginning ;  it  asks 


334  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

for  the  origin  in  Time  of  that  which  lies  out  of  Time — Time 
itself  being  one  of  the  products  of  Creation.  It  is  a  ghost 
with  a  mirror  eternally  reproducing  its  own  shadows,  yet 
each  shadow  holds  the  same  reproducing  mirror  infinitely 
multiplicative.  Most  obstinately  the  phantasm  lurks  in  the 
human  mind,  haunting  the  thoughts  of  the  little  child ;  for  at 
Sunday-school  it  will  ask  its  discomfitted  teacher :  If  God 
made  me,  tell  me  who  made  God? 

The  Poet  as  the  Teacher  of  his  age  sets  about  answering 
the  question,  and  thereby  converting  empty  phantasms  into 
images  of  truth,  even  though  they  be  dim  and  remote.  We 
see,  however,  that  his  scheme  embraces  a  grand  transition 
from  the  old  to  the  new  Gods ;  just  that  is  its  essence,  the 
transition  from  the  old  to  the  new  Gods.  Thus  it  is  plain 
that  he  believes  in  development,  there  is  progress  even 
among  the  Gods,  in  them  the  Greek  therefore  may  worship 
advancement,  and  theology  with  him  becomes  a  progressive 
science.  Not  at  all  is  there  here  the  lapse  from  the  perfect 
to  the  less  perfect,  a  fall  from  the  Divine  to  the  Bad ;  the 
beginning  is  with  the  rude  and  formless  among  Gods,  thence 
they  rise  into  a  higher  order. 

But  what  does  this  transition  from  the  old  to  the  new 
Gods  signify?  Fundamentally  the  greatest  of  all  transi- 
tions, the  one  in  which  the  culture  of  the  race  moves — it  is 
the  transition  from  Nature  to  Spirit.  Such  is  indeed  the 
true  birth  of  the  Gods — to  be  born  out  of  Nature  into  Spirit. 
The  Theogony  begins  with  Chaos  and  rises  to  Zeus,  passing 
from  dark  disorder  to  sunlit  order,  from  the  rude  primeval 
forces  of  Nature  to  a  spiritual  authority.  Zeus  is  the  cen- 
tral principle  of  the  world ;  before  him  was  chaotic  struggle 
of  turbulent  Powers,  after  him  the  beautiful  Gods  appear, 


Stop  at  Lebedeia.  335 

his  sons  and  daughters ;  with  them,  too,  Greece  is  born,  and 
from  them  takes  her  character.  The  Heroes  also  are  born, 
coming  forth  like  sculptured  forms  into  a  serene  light,  and 
the  dark  poem  clears  up  into  sunshine  playing  amid  statues. 
This  is  the  new-born  Hellas. 

The  transition  from  the  old  to  the  new  Gods  is  then  the 
important  thing  in  the  poem.  But  it  takes  place  through 
terrific  conflicts;  Zeus  has  first  to  put  down  his  father, 
Cronus,  whose  leading  trait  is  the  unfatherly  habit  of 
swallowing  his  own  offspring.  Therein  Time  is  hinted, 
which  consumes  its  own  progeny ;  but  it  has  begotten  a  son 
greater  than  itself,  greater  than  Time.  This  merely 
destructive  might  of  Time  must  be  brought  to  an  end  by  a 
universal  or  spiritual  power;  so  Zeus  arises  and  accom- 
plishes the  first  great  act  of  culture.  Nay,  he  makes  his 
father  vomit  up  the  swallowed  offspring  to  light  again — a 
strange  yet  true  image  of  the  manner  in  which  Spirit  treats 
the  temporal ;  what  has  disappeared  in  the  ages,  suddenly 
springs  up  from  its  resting-place.  So  we  are  now  making 
Time  give  up  its  ancient  cities,  long  since  swallowed  and 
even  forgotten ;  vanished  Troy,  lost  Pompeii  have  been 
vomited  from  the  capacious  maw  of  Cronus.  Indeed  every 
spiritual  son  of  Time  must  do  as  Zeus  did,  must  make  the 
pitiless  parent  reveal  the  swallowed  world  of  the  past.  Such 
is  truly  the  greatest  conflict  of  Zeus,  greater  than  the  one 
with  the  Titans,  rude  primeval  forces  of  Nature  which  must 
also  be  put  down,  subjugated  to  the  reign  of  the  new  Gods, 
ere  a  well-ordered  existence  be  possible  for  Man. 

But  will  there  not  be  a  new  development  of  Spirit  out- 
stripping even  this  last — will  there  not  arise  still  again  new 
Gods,  newer  than  Zeus,  with  whom  he  will  collide?  It 


336  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

would  seem  necessary  by  the  theory  of  development  which 
the  Poet  holds.  Yes,  here  he  appears,  Prometheus,  the 
Titan  heaven-defying,  with  his  protest  against  Zeus.  On  the 
whole  this  myth  of  Prometheus  may  be  called  the  myth  of 
all  civilization.  A  figure  of  stupendous  proportions ;  he  is 
the  thinking  Titan  who  thinks  in  advance  of  Zeus  himself, 
and  has  to  suffer  for  it,  for  his  forethought.  So  do  all 
thinking  Titans ;  they  must  conflict  with  Zeus,  with  the 
established  Gods,  working  for  the  benefit  of  the  human  race ; 
yet  bitter  is  the  draught  they  drink.  It  has  justly  made  the 
strongest  impression  upon  men,  this  myth  of  Prometheus, 
for  it  is  their  myth  in  the  deepest  sense.  Poets  have  seized 
it  and  wrought  it  over  in  the  spirit  of  their  own  time  from 
Aeschylus  to  Goethe.  It  is  only  too  vast,  the  mind  may  well 
be  paralyzed  at  trying  to  fill  the  myth  with  its  full  import ; 
it  would  seem  to  be  able  to  hold  the  whole  human  race  and 
have  plenty  of  room  left  for  somebody  else. 

The  myth  of  Pandora  occurs  again  in  this  book  and  con- 
nects it  intimately  with  the  Works  and  Days  already  men- 
tioned. Here,  too,  man  is  punished  by  having  the  woman 
sent  upon  him.  She  is  the  attractive  being,  decked  out  by 
all  the  Goddesses ;  irresistible  is  her  power,  for  man,  her 
victim,  has  in  him  that  intense  love  of  beauty,  cause  of  all 
his  ills.  Yes,  man  must  love  her;  that  is,  he  is  not 
adequate  in  himself,  is  not  self -producing ;  his  own  individ- 
uality suffices  not,  he  will  perish  unless  he  has  that  other 
individuality  called  woman.  Such  is  his  limitation,  a  hard 
lot  truly,  a  curse  of  the  Gods  in  the  language  of  the  poet, 
yet  not  without  its  compensation.  Pandora  is  manifestly 
the  Hesiodic  copy  of  Helen  whose  beauty  caused  the  Trojan 
War  and  its  grievous  calamities ;  now  she  is  the  disaster  of 


Stop  at  Lebedeia.  337 

the  whole  human  race.  Prometheus,  however,  did  not  win 
in  his  conflict  with  Zeus,  and  man  is  still  to  this  day  afflicted 
from  that  scourge  of  his  evils,  Pandora. 

But  another  Prometheus  rises  dimly  in  the  background, 
the  true  one  now,  Zeus'  own  son  by  Metis,  who,  it  is  proph- 
esied, will  overthrow  his  father  and  establish  the  newest 
Gods.  So  the  Nemesis  continues,  father  is  punished  by  son, 
receives  in  turn  just  what  he  has  done  to  his  own  father.  A 
fresh  problem  is  this  for  Zeus,  and  solved  by  him  in  a  novel 
way :  the  new  germ  he  swallows  with  its  mother,  makes  it 
his  own,  then  reproduces  it  as  Pallas,  Goddess  of  Wisdom. 
Thus  he  masters  the  new  principle  by  taking  it  into  himself ; 
in  such  manner  it  is  not  another's  and  an  enemy's,  but  his 
own.  By  this  act  he  becomes  the  true  Zeus,  and  his  rule 
must  remain  perpetual,  for  he  has  taken  up  his  last  foe  into 
himself.  Such  is  the  image  of  all  true  authority;  that 
threatening  Prometheus  with  his  new  principle  must  some- 
how or  other  be  swallowed,  else  he  will  swallow  Zeus  in  his 
turn.  Thus,  too,  the  long  line  of  dark  retributions,  between 
father  and  son  among  the  Gods  is  brought  to  an  end ;  Zeus 
has  absorbed  their  principle,  and  the  circle  terminates  in 
him.  Thereafter  he  begets  the  bright  Gods — the  Graces,  the 
Muses,  the  Hours,  Diana,  Apollo;  the  beautiful  Greek 
world  seems  to  spring  at  once  into  sunlight.  The  heroes, 
too,  are  born,  even  the  heroes  of  Homer — Achilles  and 
Ulysses ;  the  Hesiodic  Theogony,  therefore,  ends  with  bring- 
ing forth  the  Homeric  poems. 

Such  is,  then,  the  course  of  the  work,  it  unfolds  the 
transition  from  the  old  to  the  new  Gods,  the  rise  from 
Nature  into  Spirit.  It  is  on  the  whole  a  dark  chaotic  pro- 
duction, though  it  ends,  like  night,  with  a  sunrise,  and  has 


338  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

lights  gleaming  through  it  at  intervals,  like  stars.  The 
story  of  Uranus  is  an  enormous  extravaganza,  with  a  cer- 
tain dim  symbolism  underneath,  quite  foreign  to  the  Greek 
mind  of  the  Homeric  stamp.  It  is  the  rudest,  most  fan- 
tastic piece  of  Humor  extant,  for  I  cannot  help  thinking  it 
humorous  to  a  degree.  The  battle  of  Zeus  with  the  Titans 
is  pushed  to  the  very  verge  of  the  Burlesque,  and  the  whole 
work  has  a  tendency  to  pitch  over  into  the  Burlesque,  in 
attempting  to  portray  as  persons  the  colossal  powers  of 
Nature.  Still  we  feel  it  to  be  an  honest  attempt  to  construe 
the  world ;  its  dark  utterance  has  a  certain  consistency  with 
the  dark  matters  whereof  it  sings ;  and  the  bright  forms  of 
the  new  Gods  exhibit  a  significant  contrast  to  the  obscure 
convulsions  of  the  primeval  Gods. 

Sometimes  it  is  plainly  allegorical,  and  runs  along  with  a 
transparent  meaning ;  then  of  a  sudden  it  dives  into  unseen 
regions  where  no  eye  can  follow.  The  total  poem  is  not  an 
allegory,  one  big  key  will  not  unlock  the  whole  at  once ;  it 
requires  many  different  little  keys,  and  at  times  no  key  at 
all,  but  something  quite  distinct  from  an  allegorical  key  to 
reveal  the  hidden  purport.  Nor  can  it  be  tortured  by 
etymology  or  other  learned  jack-screws  into  a  self -consistent 
allegory.  A  phantasmagory  one  would  better  call  it,  with 
myth,  parable,  hymn,  even  gleams  of  history  intermingled. 
Yet  meaning  will  be  found  in  it  as  a  Whole ;  that  meaning 
is  the  origin  of  the  Gods,  the  rise  from  the  Natural  to  the 
Spiritual,  more  particularly,  the  birth  of  the  Greek  "World. 
To  the  old  Greek,  therefore,  it  was  a  true  book ;  we  may 
still  look  at  it  with  his  eyes. 

Modern  critics  have  mercilessly  cut  to  pieces  the  Hesiodic 
poems,  applying  the  analytic  knife  at  every  joint;  an  un- 


Stop  at  Lebedeia.  339 

pleasant  and  in  the  main  an  unprofitable  business,  unless  the 
work  be  put  together  again.  Far  more  satisfactory  is  it  to 
contemplate  these  poems  as  Wholes ;  it  fact  this  is  the  true 
way ;  we  must  behold  them  springing  from  one  thought,  or 
at  least  from  one  general  consciousness  belonging  to  the  age 
in  which  they  were  written,  and  of  which  they  are  the  ex- 
pression. But  after  cutting  up  the  old  Poet,  the  critics, 
like  the  daughters  of  Pelias,  have  been  totally  unable  to  re- 
store him  to  life,  let  alone  to  rejuvenate  him.  We,  how- 
ever, in  our  Greek  journey  wish  to  see  him  alive  and 
throbbing  with  musical  utterance,  therefore  we  must  look  up 
to  the  heights  and  listen  to  his  "voice  divine,  singing  a 
beautiful  song  of  both  the  future  and  the  past,  while  he 
feeds  his  lambs  under  sacred  Helicon." 

But  we  must  turn  away  from  ancient  Hesiod  and  take  a 
glance  at  this  modern  weather,  also  a  dark  theme  of  contem- 
plation. At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  it  is  still  raining; 
but  between  two  successive  showers,  veritable  sheets  of 
water  hanging  down  from  the  clouds,  I  succeed  in  slipping 
out  of  the  khan  in  search  of  a  little  diversion.  The  fierce 
roar  of  the  stream  floats  through  the  darkness ;  Herkyna 
seems  to  have  become  more  wrathful  than  ever  at  the  muddy 
torrent  poured  into  her  bosom.  I  dropped  into  an  eating- 
house  ;  there  a  Greek  gentleman  came  up  and  began  to  talk 
with  me  in  such  a  friendly  manner  that  ah1  moodiness  of  the 
day  took  wings  and  flew  off  into  the  darkness.  After  some 
pleasant  conversation  he  insisted  upon  my  going  home  with 
him  and  staying  there  for  the  night.  His  invitation  was 
joyfully  accepted. 

The  wife  and  children  received  the  stranger  in  hearty 
friendliness;  it  was  a  Greek  family  of  the  better  class. 


340  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

One  of  the  daughters  was  tying  on  a  couch  near  the  fire — a 
young  lady  rather  beautiful,  but  in  still  more  beautiful  neg- 
lect; she  had  flowered  into  womanhood,  but  her  body  still 
showed  the  weariness  of  the  effort ;  she  seemed  to  droop  in 
maidenly  languor  on  the  couch,  where  the  fresh  outlines  of 
her  form  were  revealed  in  a  modest  though  bewitching  full- 
ness. She  rose  at  our  entrance  with  evident  effort';  but 
after  a  few  moments  she  wilted  back,  as  it  were,  into  her 
former  posture.  The  mother  is  an  exceedingly  bright  and 
energetic  woman,  with  a  hospitable  grace  which  at  once  puts 
the  guest  at  ease ;  no  such  woman  have  I  yet  seen  in  rural 
Greece.  A  roasted  pig's  head  serves  as  the  chief  article  of 
the  evening  repast ;  lively  talk  rises  all  around  the  table ; 
the  merry  children  could  not  restrain  their  laughter  at  the 
odd  accent  and  waj^s  of  the  stranger.  Of  course  I  could 
not  help  letting  out  what  was  in  me,  for  I  asked  after  the 
beauties  of  Lebedeia,  in  a  sort  of  furtive  inquiry;  then  I 
wanted  to  know  about  those  of  Arachoba,  of  whom  I  had 
heard  along  the  route.  The  mother  gently  inclined  to  the 
opinion  that  the  young  ladies  of  Lebedeia  were  the  hand- 
somer. 

At  the  hour  for  retiring  I  was  conducted  to  a  bed,  the 
first  real  bed  that  T  had  seen  since  the  second  morning  of 
my  trip ;  I  hailed  it  as  an  old  friend  met  after  long  separa- 
tion. Also  here  is  an  actual  bedstead,  now  become  quite  a 
curiosity ;  I  grasp  the  posts  to  see  if  they  be  not  some 
phantom  floating  through  my  Greek  dreams.  I  drop  into 
slumber  to  the  music  of  Herkyna,  which  surges  heavily 
through  the  lighter  notes  of  the  falling  showers,  not  far  dis- 
tent from  the  bed-room  window. 

In  the  morning  preserved  citron  with  a  glass  of  water  is 


Stop  at  Lebedeia. 

offered  me,  instead  of  the  cup  of  coffee,  which  the  rest  of 
the  family  drink,  but  I  do  not.  As  I  had  often  inquired 
after  the  beautiful  faces  of  Arachoba,  and  seemed  interested 
in  those  of  Lebedeia,  the  young  lady  appeared  this  morning 
in  full  toilet,  which,  vanity  persisted  in  whispering,  was 
just  for  my  benefit.  Bright  colors  danced  through  her 
dress,  which  had  also  a  long  trail ;  then,  too,  the  Parisian 
coiffure  was  not  wanting.  She  certainly  succeeded  in  sur- 
prising me  with  her  array,  which  was  set  off  by  red  cheeks, 
dark  eyes  and  fairly  proportioned  features.  She  conducted 
me  to  the  loom  which  was  standing  in  a  small  chamber  with 
a  half -woven  garment ;  at  my  request  she  played  upon  the 
instrument  with  much  skill,  I  thought.  The  music  of  the 
shuttle  and  beam  made  me  think  of  the  piano ;  I  tried  to 
describe  the  instrument  upon  which  our  American  young 
ladies  played ;  but  she  had  never  seen  any  thing  of  the  sort, 
and  she  affirmed  that  there  was  no  such  instrument  in  Lebe- 
deia. "Boorish  place,"  she  cried.  Nor  was  there  any 
teacher  of  song  or  music  in  the  town.  After  she  had  shown 
her  accomplishments  at  the  loom  she  took  me  to  a  large 
trunk  which  contained  all  the  stores  of  her  past  labor — quite 
a  display  of  multitudinous  finery,  which,  to  be  honest  about 
the  matter,  I  very  imperfectly  understood.  Still  I  paid  her 
some  awkward  compliments,  which  she  modestly  received, 
and  I  promised  her  in  return,  when  I  reached  home,  some 
specimen  of  my  handiwork  in  a  different  line. 

Then  there  was  the  little  girl,  eight  or  nine  years  old,  who 
from  innocent  blue  eyes  gazed  at  the  stranger ;  pretty  little 
thing,  to  me  the  chief  delight  of  the  household.  Reclining 
at  her  mother's  knees  she  looks  in  childish  wonder,  with  two 
braids  down  her  back.  How  could  I  help  thinking  of  one  of 


342  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

the  same  age,  now  separated  from  me  by  the  continent  and 
ocean !  She  goes  to  school,  she  says,  and  is  ready  to  spell 
out  for  me  her  reading  exercise,  somewhat  like  the  last 
lesson  I  heard  before  leaving  home.  Sweet  little  Corallion 
with  her  two  braids !  This  morning,  as  I  came  out  of  my 
sleeping  room,  she  ran  up  and  put  into  my  hands  two 
flowers  which  she  had  just  plucked  for  me ;  with  full  eyes  I 
leaned  over  and  gave  her  my  best  reward — a  kiss.  Ah, 
little  Corallion,  you  do  not  know  how  home-sick  you  made 
me  that  whole  day ! 

But  it  is  not  possible  to  leave  Lebedeia  in  this  weather, 
for  there  is  still  the  threatening  rain  as  well  as  the  swollen 
streams.  Upon  the  hearty  invitation  of  the  host  and  host- 
ess, I  promised  to  remain  with  them  another  day.  There  is 
nothing  to  do  but  to  go  down  town  in  search  of  some  amuse- 
ment. Here  is  a  spacious  coffee-house  which  no  citizen 
seems  able  to  pass  without  entering ;  a  peep  into  it  reveals  a 
large  assemblage  of  men  sitting  at  tables  and  wreathing 
their  heads  in  tobacco  smoke.  Let  us  enter,  too,  for  nobody 
is  excluded ;  here  the  people,  high  and  low,  are  amusing 
themselves.  Drinks  of  various  kinds  besides  coffee  can  be 
obtained ;  cards,  backgammon,  dominoes  add  a  pleasant 
condiment  to  the  heavy  hours  of  a  rainy  day.  There  is 
heard  the  buzz  of  many  voices  speaking  at  once,  not  always 
harmonious;  for  have  we  not  to  discuss,  with  Greek 
vivacity  and  volubility,  that  immense  theme,  the  treaty  of 
Berlin,  and  the  annexation  of  Thessaly  and  Epirus  ?  Thus 
the  disputation  grows  hot  while  the  coffee  gets  cold; 
mouths  even  foam  while  the  beverage  long  since  has  lost  its 
last  bubble.  Town  politics  are  not  wanting,  for  an  impor- 
tant election  is  approaching;  several  candidates  wind 


Stop  at  Lebedeia.  343 

around  through  the  tables  with  their  happiest  smiles  for  the 
dear  people. 

No  distinction  of  rank  is  observed  in  the  coffee-house,  nor 
indeed  in  Greece ;  the  peasant  and  the  laborer  sit  beside  the 
officer  and  the  merchant ;  as  for  aristocracy,  there  is  none. 
The  red  fez  is  almost  universal,  European  costume  is  the  ex- 
ception. There  is  a  tradition  here  that  Lord  Byron  walked 
the  streets  of  Lebedeia  in  fez  and  fustanella.  The  buzz  con- 
tinues loud  and  long  from  full  tables ;  but  the  emphatic 
undertone  of  the  town  can  also  be  heard — the  rushing  and 
dashing  of  waters,  for  Herkyna  plunges  furiously  alongside 
the  coffee-house,  washing  its  very  walls ;  over  the  stream  a 
portico  extends  on  which  one  will  sit  and  watch  the  whirling 
current  fall  and  rise  with  the  passing  showers.  So  the 
nymph  mingles  her  angry  voice  with  the  Greeks,  as  if 
adding  volume  and  determination,  then  madly  dashes  away 
under  a  bridge  and  hides  from  the  eye,  still  tossing  her 
waters. 

The  traveler  will  seek  to  form  an  acquaintance  with  the 
man  at  his  elbow ;  it  is  not  difficult,  for  all  are  ready  to 
talk,  sometimes  in  a  variety  of  tongues.  The  head  waiter  is 
said  to  speak  six  or  seven  languages,  and  is  the  marvel  of 
the  town ;  an  officer  of  the  Greek  Army  sought  to  practice 
with  me  his  little  English,  now  somewhat  rusty.  He  is  an 
old  hunter  of  brigands  on  the  Turkish  border,  and  hopes 
soon  to  cross  the  frontier  in  search  of  a  Turkish  army.  The 
Surgeon  also  joins  our  company,  a  man  of  the  strongest 
aspiration  and  enthusiasm ;  he  is  still  young  and  would  go 
to  Paris  with  me  in  order  to  perfect  himself  in  his  profes- 
sion, were  there  not  work  for  him  at  home  in  the  near 
future.  Says  he :  Greece  is  the  only  civilizer  in  the  East ; 


344  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

we  cannot  take  our  Greek  provinces  by  arms,  we  are  too 
small;  but  we  are  going  to  conquer  them  by  light,  by 
education  at  our  university  at  Athens,  by  our  schools,  by 
our  literature.  Then  there  will  arise  a  spiritual  union  which 
must  in  the  end  bring  about  a  political  union.  Such  is  the 
destiny  of  Greece  once  again  in  history:  to  civilize  the 
Orient. 

Still  Time  has  no  wings  for  flight  on  a  rainy  day  in  a  coun- 
try town ;  he  rolls  over  you  heavily,  crushing  you  into  the 
earth,  or  smiting  you  with  his  hour-glass.  The  coffee-house 
thins  out  at  intervals ;  I  fell  asleep  in  my  chair,  looking  at 
Herkyna,  as  she  sang  her  loud  lullaby.  A  drowsy  time ; 
but  Parnassus  looms  up  yonder,  now  without  a  cloud ;  the 
summit  has  been  cleared  by  the  rain.  In  the  late  afternoon 
the  elemental  war  seems  over,  and  the  skies  beam  with 
peace. 

The  housewife,  too,  I  meet  in  a  saunter ;  it  is  Persiphon- 
eia — Proserpine.  Indeed !  Your  husband  has  to  thank  the 
Gods  for  that  divine  name ;  it  must  require  much  good  con- 
duct in  you  to  overcome  its  suggestion.  Wife  of  the  Infer- 
nal Regions,  here  of  the  household ;  so  the  old  Greek 
Goddess  has  impressed  herself  upon  the  modern  woman.  It 
was  atLebedeia  that  I  first  heard  the  name  Elpinike,  though 
known  in  antiquity  as  the  name  of  the  sister  of  Kimon ; 
often  afterwards  I  heard  it  in  the  Delphic  olives.  Plutarch, 
too,  still  lives  here,  not  far  from  his  ancient  abode ;  I  saw 
him  in  the  coffee-house '  of  Lebedeia,  darting  among  the 
tables  in  fez  and  fustanella. 

In  accordance  with  my  promise  I  went  to  the  house  of  my 
hostess  early  in  the  evening,  and  remained  with  the  family. 
Nothing  was  spared  which  might  conduce  to  the  guest's 


Stop  at  Lebedeia.  345 

entertainment  and  comfort ;  certainly  it  is  the  most  generous 
hospitality  that  I  have  ever  met  with  anywhere.  The 
daughters  are  still  in  gala-dress  ;  whether  in  honor  of  me  or  of 
some  saint  whose  festival  is  to-day  I  dare  not  inquire.  But 
a  merry  time  we  had  sitting  in  the  room  around  the  fire  with 
occasional  sips  of  recinato.  They  jested  me  about  my  Al- 
banitza  or  Albanian  woman  whom  I  said  I  was  going  to  take 
with  me  to  America ;  the  witty  hostess  asked  me  in  banter 
how  many  pounds  she  could  cariy — these  Albanian  women 
being  famous  for  their  strength.  Here  I  observed  some  in- 
dications of  discord  between  the  Greek  and  Albanian  races. 
These  people  rather  dispised  the  Albanians  as  uncultivated 
and  barbarous ;  the  contempt  is  generally  returned  by  the 
latter  who  consider  the  Greeks  as  effeminate  and  tricky. 
But  the  difference  is  great  in  one  respect :  the  sunny  atmos- 
phere of  this  Greek  family  is  a  strong  contrast  to  the  gloom 
of  the  Albanian  hovel,  where  there  is  often  no  light  except 
what  comes  through  the  door.  Here  all  is  bright,  cheery, 
truly  Greek. 

Some  relatives  dropping  in,  there  were  persons  enough  to 
have  a  little  Greek  dance  or  chorus.  The  circle  is  formed, 
the  dancers  wind  about  to  their  own  song  or  rather  sing- 
song ;  the  people  seated  around  the  room  join  in  the  chant. 
Then  there  is  at  times  a  verse  with  its  answer  from  two  dif- 
ferent sets  of  dancers.  Not  much  can  be  gotten  out  of  it ; 
but  I  am  promised  beautiful  choruses,  that  is  dances,  when 
I  come  to  Parnassus. 

The  dance  ceases,  and  we  turn  to  more  sober  things.  A 
Greek  girl  asks  me  about  the  marriage  portion  given  to 
young  ladies  in  my  country.  This  is  a  very  important  mat- 
ter here,  this  matter  of  proika  as  they  term  it.  The  young 


346  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

lady  is  alwa}^s  attached  to  a  dower  by  which  she  takes  her 
rank  in  the  scale  of  being.  To  my  surprise  I  heard  a  stout 
protest  against  this  immemorial  Greek  usage ;  a  lively  girl 
insisted  very  strongly  upon  love  without  a  marriage  portion 
— to  which  proposition  one  could  only  give  his  heartiest 
assent.  Of  course  I  did  not  dare  ask  her  whether  she  were 
of  the  dowerless  ones,  but  she  divined  my  smile,  and  replied 
that  she  had  a  proika,  I  need  not  laugh. 

But  still  more  emphatic  was  their  condemnation  of  the 
present  position  of  Greek  women ;  particularly  the  mother — 
a  keen,  lively,  energetic  person — thought  that  there  should 
be  some  change.  Not  that  they  were  violent  supporters  of 
woman's  rights — they  did  not  know  what  that  meant ;  but 
there  was  a  feeling  of  the  need  for  the  industrial  emancipa- 
tion of  women.  I  gave  a  little  account  of  the  station  of  the 
American  sister ;  that  is  what  we  want  to  some  extent,  she 
said.  Certain  employments  now  closed  to  females  should 
be  thrown  open  to  them ;  the  seclusion  of  the  Orient  should 
come  to  an  end. 

Also  desire  for  instruction  I  found  there ;  all  had  some 
education  and  had  read  a  little.  The  daughter  wanted  to 
study  French ;  an  old  text-book  of  that  tongue  was  brought 
out  and  shown  me ;  it  was  indeed  an  ancient  book  both  in 
type  and  in  method.  There  was  no  .teacher  in  town,  and 
my  proposition  to  stay  and  become  her  instructor  she 
evidently  regarded  as  a  jest.  Such  aspiration  will  be  found 
in  that  friendly,  sunny  Greek  household,  the  joy  of  the 
traveler. 

In  the  morning  the  anxious  sojourner  will  first,  \vhen  he 
rises,  shove  the  curtain  aside  and  look  out  of  the  window  to 
see  what  Zeus  commands  him  from  the  skies.  Not  a  cloud 


Stop  at  Lebedeia.  347 

is  there,  the  rains  are  over,  the  order  to-day  is  manifestly  to 
march,  the  Sun  himself  is  in  the  heavens  lighting  the  way. 
I  have  to  part,  there  is  no  use  of  hesitation,  though  the 
hostess  gives  a  pressing  invitation  to  stay.  I  break  the 
pang  of  separation  by  saying  that  I  may  return — well,  I 
may.  Good-bye ;  a  kiss  to  little  Corallion  who  brings  some 
more  flowers ;  she  with  her  sweet  face  and  two  braids  down 
the  back,  stirs  the  waters  deep  within,  all  unconscious  of  her 
power;  I  kiss  in  hers  a  little  face  5,000  miles  away.  Good- 
bye; a  final  glance  into  the  group  of  dark  eyes  hanging 
around  the  door,  and  I  am  off.  Passing  down  the  street  I 
look  back  once  more ;  a  handkerchief  waves  out  of  the  win- 
dow, to  which  a  like  response  is  given ;  then  a  corner  is 
turned  and  that  family  has  become  a  pleasant  dream. 

My  friends,  let  us  stop  for  a  moment,  ere  we  separate, 
and  look  back  at  our  whole  journey  in  its  different  stages. 
We  have  traveled  along  a  geographical  line,  filled  with  the 
fairest  and  most  varied  views  of  Nature,  delightful  to  our 
vision ;  but  we  have  also,  I  hope,  traveled  along  a  spiritual 
line  into  which  the  old  Greek  elevated  Nature  and  of  which  he 
made  her  bear  the  impress.  Him  we  have  sought  to  follow, 
first  through  Marathon  with  its  historical  Deed,  then  back 
through  Aulis  with  its  mythical  Deed ;  in  both  we  have  be- 
held one  struggle,  that  with  the  Orient,  and  have  seen 
Greece  come  forth  therefrom  new-born,  ever  rising  into 
something  truer  and  more  worthy  spiritually.  Already  to 
Helicon  we  have  come — the  third  act  of  our  little  drama ; 
here,  among  other  wonders,  we  have  beheld  the  birth  of  the 
Gods  themselves,  those  who  victoriously  controlled  that  con- 
flict; here  we  have  seen  the  old  Gods  arise  and  be  put 
down,  like  the  East,  like  Nature,  too ;  now  the  new  Gods 


348  A  Walk  in  Hellas. 

are  sunnily  seated  upon  their  mountain  throne  and  sway 
thence  the  new  world.  This  is  the  new  Hellas,  illuminated 
bjT  a  new  sun  shining  out  of  the  victory  of  Marathon,  out  of 
the  capture  of  Troy,  out  of  the  subjection  of  Cronus  to 
Zeus:  quite  the  same  thing  they  all  are  in  Spirit.  Such, 
too,  is  the  key-note  of  happy  Helicon,  heard  in  the  voice  of 
her  Poet,  ancient  Hesiod,  heard  also  in  her  Oracle,  old  Tro- 
phonius.  Still  this  is  but  the  exultant  beginning  of  the  day, 
it  is  the  glorious  sunrise  of  Hellas ;  somewhat,  we  may 
imagine,  is  yet  to  follow. 


TOlYKRgppy 


JSSSXSSSSSa*. 


000  880  710 


DF 

725 

S67w 

1881 

v.l 


1! 


